


calamus

by sylvermyth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, mild violence, some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 03:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13627257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvermyth/pseuds/sylvermyth
Summary: Princes Victor and Yuri each have their own idea of what’s best for the country.  Prince Yuri looks to gain recognition by leading an army to victory against neighboring country Glacius, but marches out only to be delayed again and again.  It might have something to do with the raven shadowing him—which he suspects isn’t a raven at all.  Meanwhile, Victor hopes to negotiate for peace with Yuuri, the crown prince of Glacius, despite having never met.  King Christophe hosts the negotiations and kicks things off with a masquerade, as one does.  A tale of heroes, fairies, and love.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> cal·a·mus  
> /ˈkaləməs/  
> \- (ZOOLOGY) the hollow lower part of the shaft of a feather, which lacks barbs; a quill.  
> \- referring to the 'Calamus' poems by Walt Whitman
> 
> Thank you to my lovely artists [@deadfreckledboys](http://deadfreckledboys.tumblr.com) and [@bluejiji25](http://bluejiji25.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Lots of thanks to [@caseyvalhalla](http://caseyvalhalla.tumblr.com) for all their help brainstorming and listening to all my crack ideas as I worked on this! This fic wouldn't have been possible without them!

**  
**

 

**Yuri**

The clash of metal-on-metal rang through the air, punctuated by shouts and grunts. Prince Yuri dragged an arm across his forehead, sweating despite the crisp fall air. His muscles ached with exertion, but he was sporting fewer bruises than Georgi, at the other end of his sword, and that was a point of pride, though it was clear Georgi was improving. That was another point of pride, because Yuri wanted all of his officers to hold their own in a fight.

“Again,” Yuri grunted a few minutes later, retreating just enough for Georgi to regain his feet. He could hear Mila farther down the training yard, calling out criticisms and the occasional praise for the men and women she was drilling. They were his company, around a hundred of them ranged around the field, and he was confident that they were the best even in times of peace.

But they had begun training in earnest barely a week ago, at King Yakov’s command, and would be setting out to join the rest of the regiment in a few days, where Yuri would lead the army in an attack against the neighboring country. They had to be _better_ than the best.

It didn’t matter to Yuri that his father’s reason for the attack was flimsy at best; all that mattered was that he and his company distinguish themselves in the king’s eyes.

A flash of white in the corner of Yuri’s eye caught his attention, just enough that Georgi managed to push past his guard and drive him back, practice sword landing solidly against his ribs. Yuri bit out a curse and knocked away the offending weapon. It was an effort not to scream his irritation, but it wasn’t Georgi that was pissing him off. “Enough. Go tell Mila I want a written report of today’s drills. Oversee the supply checks yourself. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Georgi looked put out at the dismissal, his bow a fraction lower than usual, but Yuri didn’t bother to reassure him. He was too busy spinning on his heel to glare at the person tutting behind him.

“You dropped your guard, Yuri.”

Yuri scowled at the serene smile being directed at him. “Fuck off, Victor.” He swept an appraising gaze over Victor’s pristine white tunic, an intricate leaf motif picked out in gold thread, and soft trousers underneath. His long, silvery hair was perfect and his gloves were clean; Yuri’s own hair was plastered down with sweat, his gloves soiled from the dirt of the yard. Yuri dusted a hand over his own dirty practice armor, the stark difference between them not lost on him. “Don’t you have ‘matters of state’ to attend to?”

Victor’s smile thinned. “You wound me, Yuri. Can’t I—”

Yuri cut him off with a hissed, “No.” The patronizing tone was grating, banking his anger even higher. “This is my duty. I don’t need your help or your concern. This is _mine_.” He turned towards the barracks, already pulling impatiently at the buckles of his armor. “Don’t worry,” he called, not bothering to look back, “I will make Father proud, too.”

As the second son of the king, he’d already spent his life trying to catch up and match Victor’s accomplishments. The attack on Glacius would be his opportunity to make a name for himself, to prove he was as capable as Victor. The thrill of it was slightly diminished, however, since King Yakov had announced that the crown prince would remain behind. It didn’t matter the reason—to keep the heir safe, to learn the intricacies of diplomacy—what mattered was that Yuri was robbed the chance to exhibit his skill alongside Victor’s on the field, to best his brother in the only place he _could_.

Of course, it would never be that easy. They would never stand on even ground.

“Yuri.” All of Victor’s false cheer had fallen away, his tone one of command, used to being obeyed. Yuri faltered and turned back to face him. He wondered idly when Victor’s blue eyes had gotten so distant, and quickly decided it didn’t matter. He met Victor’s gaze squarely, unflinching. “I have no doubt you will make the whole of Poskana proud.” Victor’s voice softened. “But must you be so eager to go to war? War is nothing like a tournament or our training games. The consequences are—” he cut himself off before he could finish the thought and sighed. “I don’t think Father is right in this.”

Yuri crossed his arms. “You’re just angry you have to stay behind.” He smirked. “No chance to earn your own glory, but even if you could, I’d still do better than you.”

Victor opened his mouth to say something else, only to close it again, frowning as he studied Yuri. After a moment, he looked away, and Yuri counted it as a small victory. He was about to turn away again, when Victor’s face lit up (and it said something that Yuri couldn’t tell if it was real or not, anymore), his hand shooting out to point up at something. “Look, Yuri, a raven! You know, ravens are messengers of the fae, it’s lucky that you have one watching over you.”

Yuri rolled his eyes. “Or unlucky. Maybe it’s watching you.” His gaze strayed to where Victor was pointing, anyway, where there indeed was a raven perched among the dying leaves of a tree, though he doubted it was actually watching them.

“Hmm.” Victor smiled, inclining his head, and this one Yuri knew was mocking. “Maybe. Ah! That’s right. Father asked for a report on your progress, after dinner.” Victor made a face. “Maybe take a bath first. You stink.”

Yuri uncrossed his arms to tug his gloves off and throw them at Victor. He wasn’t surprised that Victor caught them, but there was some satisfaction in seeing the smudges of dirt marring the white of Victor’s gloves now. “Whatever.” This time Victor didn’t call out to him when he turned toward the barracks. He cast another look at the tree despite himself, to find that the raven was still there, head tilted.

It was just superstition.

Yuri unbuckled his armor as he walked, his irritation melting as he put distance between himself and Victor. All things considered, it had been a productive day, the morning spent cataloging weapons and armor, inspecting the supply wagons, and all the other minutia that preceded a campaign. His men and women drilled in combat on and off horse, in pairs and in groups, and he was certain they could hold formations even in their sleep. They would be ready.

However, despite Yuri’s outward confidence, he was less sure that _he_ was ready. At sixteen, he was more than a little young to be taking command of the rest of the regiment that awaited outside the city limits. He was skilled in combat, that much he’d proved time and time again in exhibition matches and tournaments. He had even led successful attacks in border skirmishes, but—he hated to admit—Victor was right: this would be different. There had been peace for most of Yuri’s life, and though he’d been educated in warfare tactics, he hadn’t been able to test that knowledge in a full-scale attack.

He pushed those useless thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t afford doubt. He could only think about returning with a victory for King Yakov, and the pride of having done something that Victor hadn’t—couldn’t.

The barracks were still noisy with his men and women, praise and good-natured ribbing joining the sounds of clomping boots and jingling buckles. Yuri didn’t join them in their camaraderie; he’d always felt removed from everyone else, and his own company was no different. It was fine. They would follow the orders either given by himself or via Mila and Georgi, and they would be a cohesive unit. He didn’t need or want anything more from them, so long as they were successful.

He attended to his armor in his office, glancing over the documents strewn on his desk: inventories and reports delivered by hawk from companies stationed at the borders.

Scarcely a month ago, the documents would’ve been delivered to Victor—and no doubt, Victor still received similar reports—but Victor had been given other duties, and though King Yakov was hale and hearty, Queen Lilia’s disappearance had made him…paranoid.

Yuri didn’t see any reason to fuss. He knew his mother was unhurt, somehow, an instinct perhaps, though he also found it hard to believe she could fall victim to anything malicious. More likely, his parents had probably had some disagreement, and it was a final straw, driving her away. King Yakov didn’t share his thoughts on that, only that he somehow blamed the Glacius king for it. And Yuri would never admit it out loud, but Victor was probably right, in this.

That their father was wrong.

But he’d been waiting his whole life for a chance to distinguish himself, to stand apart from the Golden Crown Prince of Poskana. He could be the country’s hero, too.

Yuri had half a mind to skip the bath, just to spite Victor, but he wasn’t willing to deny _himself_ that simple pleasure for something so petty, so he didn’t. He dressed for court, resplendent gold and black to rival Victor’s pristine white, and returned to his office.

Mila and Georgi’s reports had joined the others on his desk by the time he finished, and he took a cold dinner while he reviewed them. Let Victor and Father play politics over feasts while Yuri planned victories. He preferred the solitude, anyway. (Perhaps that was a little dramatic, but it wasn’t like he cared.)

Yuri took a pen and a fresh piece of parchment to summarize a report of his own. It would be easier to present it to his father like that, and if prompted, he would provide full details, though he didn’t expect such a request.

.o.

It was becoming less of a surprise, to see Victor seated next to their father in the throne room, one of his empty smiles plastered on his face, to learn about and assist with the duties that came with ruling a country. It had been Queen Lilia in that seat, before, though she’d already been appearing less and less, too many disagreements both behind closed doors and here on the dais. Yuri wasn’t entirely sure that Victor would be any less contrary—he certainly wasn’t when it had to do with Yuri.

Yuri offered his father a small bow, and the formality irritated him, but this was a public performance as long as they were in this room. He could feel the eyes of courtiers at his back, and knew their expectations for him were as high as his own. “Your Majesty.” He handed over his written report, ignoring Victor’s assessing gaze. “As you can see, my company is ready to join the rest of the regiment ahead of schedule. We are at your command.”

The king’s eyes flicked over the parchment, nodding in approval. “Very good, Yuri. As you are aware, we are honor-bound to announce our intent to battle. I will prepare such an announcement for you to send once you are near the Glacius border.” His face darkened in a scowl. “Though I hardly think King Celestino would be surprised by your attack.”

There was a consensus from the courtiers; the king had not been subtle in his intentions. They had made no attempt to hide the preparations, in any case, and it was the honorable way to fight, if not the smart way to fight. Yuri wondered, not for the first time, if King Celestino would follow the same code of honor, especially when they were attacking Glacius unprovoked. He would do what he had to, he supposed.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“A procession will see you off at noon tomorrow. Rest well tonight, my son.” Yuri inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You are dismissed.”

 

* * *

 

**Victor**

It was late when King Yakov finally retired from the throne room, Victor trailing in his wake. The duties of the king were tedious in the best of times, but the war preparations had nearly doubled the workload. There were foot soldiers to recruit—not a task for royalty, but they had to set quotas—and new taxes to levy, food and weapons stores to be made in the castle and the city. Fortifications to be made at the city gates and walls, and patrols doubled, and though it seemed unlikely that any battles would reach so far into the country, they had to be prepared for the possibility.

War was good for the economy. Victor knew that much from his education, but it was visible in the markets, too, bustling with the extra demand for supplies, merchants hawking in front of the smiths and animal pens, folks crowding the booths, and coin changing hands as quickly as possible. It was a kind of manic energy that would likely burn out quickly, especially if there was any extended conflict.

It was hardly a warranted response, to instigate a war, given King Yakov’s reasoning. A petty dispute over longstanding trade agreements, and bandits along the trade routes that likely had little to do with either country. Border skirmishes that were a result of local grievances, rather than those of the state.

Victor wiped a hand over his face, exhausted by all of it. He dropped into a chair, facing King Yakov from across his desk, casting a cursory glance around the office. They were alone, their guard on the other side of closed doors, and now he could give voice to his concerns.

“Father, shouldn’t we wait to hear King Celestino’s response to your last letter? We could still avoid war. You haven’t issued the challenge yet.”

Yakov leaned heavily on his desk, looking nearly as weary as Victor felt. “Vitya.” The patronizing tone made Victor frown. For all the emphasis on Victor’s role as crown prince—and his future role as king—he only got lectures for his efforts. Out of the eye of the public, he felt nothing like the shining prince they saw, because every move was a mistake. “Have you paid attention to anything I’ve said?”

Victor met his gaze stonily. “I have, and you’re wrong.”

Yakov grunted in frustration. “Vitya, you never _listen_ to me. Do you think keeping the peace is so easy? You think diplomacy is simple? You can’t just flatter and charm your way through everything.” His voice was even, but Victor could tell he was getting more and more agitated by the way he leaned forward, imposing even with the desk between them, his face growing red. And still, he interjected, because _he was right in this,_ peace was the better option. It had to be.

“Father—”

“No, Victor, listen!” Yakov bellowed, finally raising his voice, and Victor fought the urge to flinch back. “You want peace? Fine. You take over the negotiations. I will give you my terms, but I promise you, Celestino will not agree to them simply because he’s _charmed_. You’ll learn how difficult it is.” The idea seemed to mollify Yakov some, his tone level once more. “In fact, a hard lesson in diplomatic affairs is far overdue.” Yakov sat back in his chair.

It was as much of a concession he would give, Victor realized, and possibly his only chance to circumvent a conflict. He smiled, and it was genuine, as his smiles so rarely were anymore.

“Thank you, Father, you won’t regret it.” He stood, filled with sudden energy. “I’ll make arrangements immediately. Should I send a scribe to record the terms? Oh, but you have things you would compromise on, right?” This was good. He had a chance, and he could definitely do this. He started pacing, thinking aloud. “Of course, as things stand now, it wouldn’t do to have either country host the other.”

Yakov’s eyes followed him on his circuit of the room, eyebrows raised. “I may already be regretting it,” he rumbled.

Victor paused, beaming at him. He’d started thinking too fast for his mouth to keep up, but he already had it half-planned. The country Esteau bordered both Poskana and Glacius to the east, and it had always been on friendly terms with both countries—in past conflicts, Esteau had remained neutral. Victor knew King Christophe would likely follow that tradition. And Yakov was wrong about this, too, because Victor would have no trouble charming _Chris_ to his cause, and surely Celestino wasn’t so war-hungry that he wouldn’t at least give consideration to another round of negotiations.

Victor strolled across the room, until he could lean down and kiss Yakov on the cheek, hair spilling over his shoulder to brush his father’s. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” Victor patted him on the shoulder, ignoring Yakov’s grumblings, before taking his leave.

He felt light as he traversed the wide corridors leading to his chambers, more excited than he had been in years, with a goal to work towards, something that would truly be meaningful. Makkachin sensed his good mood when he opened his door, bounding around the room with cheerful _woofs_ once Victor greeted him, and Victor tossed a ball for him in between the letters and lists he drafted.

“What do you think, Makkachin? You want to come with to Esteau? Visit Uncle Chris? He was still a prince last time you saw him, but he’s a king now, like Father. Do you think it changed him?” Makkachin cocked his head, tail wagging. “No, you’re right. King Christophe is still the same person, whether there’s a crown on his head or not.” Victor tapped a finger on a bundle of letters at the corner of his desk. “He still writes, so of course he’ll agree. King Celestino will be the difficult one. Father hasn’t given me an easy task.” Makkachin woofed his agreement.

Victor sighed. “I don’t blame him, though. Yuri will be pushing at his borders in only a few days’ ride. We don’t _look_ peaceful.” He held out a hand for Makkachin, who snuffled it before allowing his ears to be scratched. Victor frowned, thoughtful; despite Yakov’s grumblings, he had paid attention to his lectures on politics and diplomacy. “But a show of good faith in Esteau would go a long way.”

He looked over the drafts he’d written. Half of them would be pointless if Chris refused to act as mediator and host—probably all of them, if King Celestino chose to stand his ground and refused an audience, but Victor planned to go to Esteau regardless. If nothing else, perhaps Chris could provide insight and council.

He plucked the letter addressed to Chris from his desk and signed and sealed it. The sooner that one was sent out, the sooner he could set things into motion.

It was well past midnight when Victor set off towards the tower that housed the mews, Makkachin trotting obediently next to him. He was still in his court clothing, the fabric now rumpled, ink smudging a sleeve, and he regretted that he hadn’t changed, hadn’t bothered to tame the mess of his hair, but he’d been charged, planning and writing and singularly focused. Getting comfortable hadn’t been a top priority, and it occurred to him that he didn’t really care if the palace staff saw him in such a state.

They’d probably seen worse, anyway. And maybe that was a mark against him, but it didn’t matter. He would prove that he was capable where it mattered.

There were a few hawks dozing in the mews, high above in the rafters, and they stirred when he whistled the low trill Queen Lilia had taught him. After a moment, one flew down to the wooden beam jutting out of the wall, set at waist-height just for that purpose. Victor offered it the meat scraps he’d grabbed from the kitchen, because it was rude to send hawks away without offering them something in return, and that he had also learned from his mother.

Lilia would’ve been able to talk Yakov down, to make him see reason, but she was gone. Somewhere safe, Victor was sure, and Yuri didn’t seem worried, either, so it was likely by choice, had even been a long time coming, probably. That didn’t seem to console Yakov, though.

Victor huffed a small sigh, tying the folded parchment to the hawk’s leg. “Take this to King Christophe of Esteau.” The hawk tilted its head and chirped its understanding. “Thank you, friend.” He watched it go, wings carrying it up and through the window, into the night.

It was the first step.

The hawk was perched on the back of his desk chair when he woke the next morning, King Christophe’s seal visible on the parchment tied to its leg. Victor rang for a servant to fetch meat for it, and it sat patiently as he retrieved Chris’s reply, and waited at a word from Victor—the promise of its reward—before taking flight through the open window.

Victor could practically hear Chris’s rich baritone as he read the flowing script, firm assurances that Victor had Chris’s friendship, and that he would be _delighted_ to play host to the rival countries for the purpose of achieving peace. He need only announce his departure. And, of course, convince King Celestino join him, but Chris suggested he might have a more sympathetic ear in Glacius’s crown prince, if Victor would leave the rest to Chris.

Victor was familiar enough with the political landscape in Glacius to know _of_ Prince Yuuri.  He was Celestino’s nephew, the heir chosen in the absence of any children by the king, but Victor had never had the opportunity to meet him, despite fact that someday they would be neighboring kings.  It was simply a matter of coincidence, missing one another at the few public affairs they’d both attended.  It meant that correspondence with the prince would be blind, and technically etiquette dictated a formal introduction before exchanging letters.

But these were extenuating circumstances, and anyway Victor trusted Chris’s judgment, because despite being younger, he’d already been king long enough to deftly navigate the intricacies of diplomacy.  Christophe’s name would have to suffice as introduction, he supposed, reaching for his pen.

“What do you think he’s like, Makkachin?”  Victor considered the letter addressed to Prince Yuuri carefully.  It was polite, but frank, and possibly his best chance at achieving his goal, if Prince Yuuri was truly amenable to reopening peace negotiations.  He gathered up the pile of letters and lists and set off to make preparations for the journey to Esteau.

Victor could see the palace yard from the tower housing the mews, and he paused at the window to watch Yuri’s company saddling their horses, the jingle of parade harnesses audible even this far up.  Yuri was a bright presence in their midst, golden hair and polished armor glinting in the sun, a contrast to the sweat and grime of hard training Victor was used to.  He shined, when he was like this, and Victor felt a swell of pride.  It would be another hour before they would truly take their leave, and he wanted to see Yuri off personally, before the procession, to wish him luck and safety.

But he remembered Yuri’s response to such sentiments the day before, how he’d callously brushed Victor off, and he frowned.  He knew Yuri had his reasons for being prickly, but it would be ill luck to send him off in a foul mood.  He would have to settle for sending his well-wishes from afar, watching the procession out of the city alongside their father.

He only hoped that Yuri would not have to stay away long, that this conflict could be resolved before the cost became too high.


	2. Part Two - Yuri

Yuri’s eyes swept over the sea of white before him, the tents of the men and women under his command set out in meticulous, orderly rows, watch fires already being kindled. 

They were still a day’s march out from the border outpost, a fact that made Yuri snappy and peevish, because they had managed to fall behind schedule, despite their early start. It was fortunate that he had yet to send King Yakov’s war declaration, since Glacius would be sure to attack immediately following its receipt, but rumors of his force’s movements had spread before them, and truly, King Celestino would be anticipating their arrival. Every lost hour gave Glacius that much more time to gather intelligence and prepare for attack. 

It wasn’t quite the fault of his command; joining his company with the rest of the regiment stationed outside the city had been nearly seamless, surpassing his hopes. The logistics of it fell into place well enough, inventories and marching orders and all the miscellany that came from moving a large armed force over long distances, all numbers that behaved as they were supposed to, without fuss. Even the slow forward movement that was inevitable with such a large force was only a marginally off-putting, the wagons moving at a crawl, and between them and the length of the column, it took nearly a half an hour for the whole force to pass a single point. 

Yuri knew, because he’d sat to one side and watched them pass, on the second day, to have a better awareness of how they moved as a unit. 

However, on the third day, the sky opened up in a torrential downpour. He had wanted to push onward, but it seemed prudent to save the energy for later, and in any case, an outrider returned with mud churning beneath her horse’s hooves, pronouncing the road too treacherous to accommodate their numbers. So many feet and hooves and wheels would only increase the hazard, and even Yuri wasn’t reckless enough to court injury or illness so early. 

A day of rest, then, though it was miserable and damp, because even keeping to their tents there was no way to truly be dry without proper shelter. A waste, because they still needed rations, and yet they were doing nothing, the rain only barely letting up so that visibility was too low even to do basic training exercises outside. Yuri stalked the lanes between the tents, restless and irritable, hair dripping wet into his collar and oiled cloak only doing so much, feet squelching in his boots. 

When he finally ducked back into his tent, there was a raven perched on the tree next to it, and he swore it was giving him a judgmental look. He ignored it. 

The fourth day the rain had slowed enough to see, at least, though the roads were still slick, and Yuri’s mood worsened, until he called his captains to his tent to pour over their maps yet again. They’d lost time, but they could make it up. 

They didn’t. 

The rain stopped, and the roads were still barely passable; Yuri pushed them forward anyway, impatient with the delays, but they were forced to move even slower. Worse, an outrider returned with news that the bridge that lay ahead was in no condition for an entire regiment to cross. 

“Mila, with me,” Yuri growled, and the two of them followed the outrider at a brisk trot until they reached the bridge. It was another effect of the rain, no doubt, the land falling away from the supports on the other end of the bridge, and maybe a few single riders could clear the gap, but the regiment would only make the gap worse. The wagons certainly wouldn’t make it over. Yuri cursed; another setback. “Is it possible to fix it?” 

Mila frowned. “Probably, but it might take a few days. We’d have to acquire the materials.” 

Yuri ground his teeth. “And to go around?” 

“Our other outriders haven’t had any troubles on the other roads. There’s another bridge, but we’ll have to backtrack. We would still lose time, but it’s more certain than,” Mila gestured at the ground just past their horses’ hooves. 

Yuri cast another look at the loose soil. By the time they got to where they were headed, he’d be more than fit for a fight. “Fine. I’ll give the order.” He glanced at the outrider. “Make sure to send word to the nearest village about this.” The man bowed from his saddle in acknowledgment. Yuri spun his horse and kicked it into a canter, riding ahead, and as he crossed back to the near side of the bridge, a raven took wing. 

He’d been acting contrary, when he’d suggested to Victor that ravens were unlucky, but Yuri was beginning to think that it was the truth, after all. He was certainly becoming tired of seeing them with every further delay. 

Things went more smoothly, after that, though it became clear that they couldn’t make up the lost days. Not without wearing themselves out, though Yuri had no problem wearing _himself_ out, venting his frustrations by sparring with his officers. And it still wasn’t enough. Even a day out from the border, he could feel the anticipation buzzing in his veins, impatient for a real battle. 

It was still light out and he was restless, so Yuri summoned a scout, to show him the lay of the land ahead. It was unnecessary, he had maps and reports to tell him all he needed to know, but the camp was stifling, and it was as good an excuse as any to leave it behind. 

The land was wooded, just outside the camp’s perimeter, trees thick on either side of the road, fallen leaves muffling the sounds of their horses’ hooves, and after half a mile, even the white of the tents was gone from view. Yuri’s guide was pointing out tactical advantages, estimated travel times, but he’d already had reports of it all, and let her voice fade to white noise, just another layer of sounds carried by the wind. It wasn’t calming, exactly, because there was still a restless energy just under his skin, but being surrounded by trees, the smell of autumn in full swing, helped him clear his head, feel a little less claustrophobic. 

The shadows were growing deeper the farther they went, evidence of the sun’s descent, and Yuri realized after a moment that his guide was trying to get his attention. He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Highness, perhaps we should head back?” 

Yuri reined his horse in with a grunt, frowning. She was right, of course; if they proceeded much further it would be dark before they reached camp, and he hadn’t thought to bring a lamp or torch, so he nodded, guiding his mount around. 

He only registered the sound whistling by his shoulder as the hiss of an arrow _after_ it thudded into a nearby tree, but the second he did, he reacted, mind racing, eyes scanning, even as he urged his horse forward—hopefully out of range of further shots, but the woods had become too dark to see for sure, and he was barely aware of his guide behind him, following his lead. They’d only made it two paces before a group of men melted out of the trees to block the road, dirty and dressed in rags, grinning with crooked teeth as they brandished clubs and rusty swords. 

Yuri’s horse reared, but he kept his seat, body already compensating for balance. They were bandits, most likely, nearly half a dozen in front of them, and at least one behind them, to loose the arrow. Perhaps they’d thought them a pair of wealthy travelers, easy targets, but Yuri had fire in his veins, his sword already unsheathed to dispatch them, and glad to have something to fight, finally, _finally_. 

His horse was lashing out with hooves, in tandem with his blade, and it would be no problem to overcome his attackers. He could already see his victory, in the blood glistening on his sword, the bodies prone on the ground, and he expected the rest to flee, was already tempted to give chase— 

“He’s royalty, take him alive.” 

The piercing scream of his guide’s horse was startling, but the chaos of battle was something Yuri had trained his own animal for, so he kept his focus on the men that had yet to retreat, and therefore wasn’t prepared for the heavy weight of the injured horse when it listed sideways, crashing into him, its rider limp in the saddle. His own horse skittered, and in trying to keep his balance, Yuri dropped his guard, only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for one of the rusty blades to slice into his thigh, the blade thrust from below to skirt his armor. 

Yuri bit out a curse, the cut red-hot and wet, and it was deep, he could tell, the blood already soaking into the fabric of his breeches. 

His gaze darted around again, reevaluating. There were four limp bodies in the road by now, one of them his guide—the arrow in her throat meant she wouldn’t be getting back up—but still another half dozen—no, more—were upright, circling to surround him, just out of reach of his sword, his horse’s hooves. Their blades were pointed inward, so he risked further injury if he pressed through them. 

“They’ll pay us nicely for a prince.” 

His horse pranced nervously, and Yuri pushed down the uncertainty trying to climb up his throat, tried to ignore the prickle of his skin crawling, a reaction to the leers on all sides, to the corpse of the woman he’d barely known but was still one of his own. He could. He could kill them, and get away, back to camp, have his injury treated. He’d done it a million times, but his limbs weren’t moving, weren’t responding. His world was frozen, his head spinning. 

Yuri grit his teeth; he was _better than this_. 

A dark figure burst out of the woods just as Yuri tightened his grip on his sword, clamped his legs around his horse (his wound screamed in protest, but he ignored it). He braced for impact, but the person barreled into one of the bandits, instead, so Yuri surged forward, his sword finding flesh and ripping through it. The sound of steel and rending flesh filled his ears, the stench of blood and entrails curdling his stomach, but he didn’t stop. 

His breath was coming hard when he tugged his blade from the last, filthy corpse, and turned to face his helper. Yuri blinked, trying to focus on them through the encroaching darkness. He opened his mouth, to thank them, maybe, but his mouth felt thick, and the world was spinning, making him queasy. He blinked again, trying to shake it off, but reopening his eyes was difficult. When he managed to, the other was closing the distance between them, and Yuri tried to raise his sword in defense, just in case, but it was slipping through his fingers, and the sound of it hitting the ground was muffled. 

Yuri was vaguely aware of the world listing to the side, and he had a brief rush of terror, unable to stop it, and then his eyes fluttered shut. 

.o. 

The first thing Yuri noticed when he came to was that he was burning up, his skin damp with sweat, and he moved to tug at his clothing, to get some relief from it, but a hand closed around his wrist, gently aborting the motion. 

“Don’t move.” The voice was low, slightly accented, and entirely unfamiliar; Yuri stilled. Had he been captured, after all? 

The idea of such a failure clawed at his throat, rage adding to the fire of his already feverish body. He was still blinking against the darkness when he opened his mouth, to demand an explanation, and found his tongue dry and heavy. When he licked his lips to try again, what came out was a plea for “Water,” the sound gravelly and unrecognizable as his own voice. 

“Here.” The person at his side shifted, wrapping an arm around Yuri’s shoulders until he was half-sitting, and then pressed something to his parched lips. He could _smell_ the water, wet and sweet and life-giving, and Yuri drank greedily, tried to hold the canteen on his own, but his hand was still shaking. The water was pulled away, and Yuri tried to drag it back. “Slowly, okay?” 

Yuri nodded, some of his irritation soothed by the low voice, but he still croaked out, “Where am I?” He couldn’t make out much more than shadows, the only light farther away and too dim to give definition to his surroundings, or the dark figure supporting him; he realized it was already fully night, and he hadn’t made it back to his camp. He felt his mouth slant. “They’ll be looking for me.” 

“Yeah, probably.” Yuri shifted, an attempt to push away from the other, but there was no strength in his arms, and his head swam dangerously, a sudden chill making gooseflesh rise up and down his arms. “Don’t. You lost a lot of blood, you should rest.” 

Yuri worried his lips with his teeth. The cut on his leg throbbed, even hotter than the rest of him, and he dropped his eyes to it, surprised to find it bandaged neatly, only just visible in the gloom. He tested the fabric with a finger, but it was snug and secure, and his breath left him in a shaky exhale. He gathered himself with his next inhale, and maybe his body was still weak, but his resolve was as firm as ever. 

He had an army to lead into battle, after all, and this was just a flesh wound, a minor setback. Like all those other setbacks. Yuri clenched his teeth as he glanced up, half-expecting to see a raven lurking in the branches above him, but even if there was, it would’ve been too dark to see. 

Aware the other watching him, Yuri finally turned to study his…companion. A pair of dark eyes met his gaze, catching and reflecting what little light there was. He could barely make out the features of the other’s face, but they looked stern, the dark hair in a severe undercut, and if Yuri judged by looks alone, he’d find himself torn between being intimidated and admiring the man. But Yuri himself was stronger than his delicate appearance, so he didn’t judge, just yet. Actions had always spoken the loudest. 

“Did you do this?” Yuri gestured at the bandage, and the other nodded. “Thank you, then.” He sat up straighter, and the arm on him tightened, but Yuri found he could brace his weight on his own hand and shrugged it off. “I can sit on my own.” It came out harsh, but Yuri was still wary, and more than uncomfortable with showing even a little weakness. Even if he had already passed out in front this person. The thought stirred his memory, and he recalled the figure coming to his aid against his attackers. “So that was you, too, against those bandits.” 

“It was.” The other shifted so there was more space between them, and Yuri could look at him without having to turn his head. 

Yuri frowned. “I could’ve defended myself without your help.” 

“Yes, I know.” His voice was calm and even, void of any patronizing tone. Yuri liked that. 

Yuri started, the thought only just occurring to him. “Where’s my horse?” 

The twitch of lips on the other’s face could’ve been a smile, but it was so slight that Yuri couldn’t be sure. “Just there.” He turned, pointing, and let out a little trill, earning an answering nicker from Yuri’s horse, its hulking shape only barely discernible amongst the trees. The whistle reminded Yuri a little of the sound he used to call the messenger hawks, an undercurrent of magic in the notes, and Yuri narrowed his eyes in suspicion. 

“Who are you?” 

The other tilted his head, and it was familiar, like a bird turning to see better. “I’m Otabek.” 

Yuri pursed his lips. “ _What_ are you?” Because it was a relevant question, considering; there weren’t many people with fae magic, but there were plenty of _fairies_ with it, and maybe not everyone _believed_ in either thing (fairies and magic), but Yuri knew better than to think that belief had anything to do with it. 

“A friend.” Even in the dark, Yuri could feel the full force of his gaze, and he returned it in kind, eyebrow raised skeptically. 

“A friend,” Yuri repeated, voice flat. Yuri didn’t have friends. He had his family, and he had the men and women under his command, and there were a few servants that he recognized, but there was no one he would consider a _friend_. 

Otabek let out a noise of impatience. “Look, you passed out and fell off your horse, and I’ve done nothing but help you, so are you going to trust me or not?” 

“Alright,” Yuri conceded. It was true enough that Otabek had done nothing to cause him harm, and he was unbound. The thought of being _saved_ still left a bitter taste in his mouth. “To be clear: you did me no favor.” 

This time Yuri was sure that Otabek’s lips curled into a small smile. “No favors. There is no debt among friends.” 

Yuri relaxed marginally, nodding. He still wasn’t entirely sure that his suspicion was correct, but if Otabek was fae, it was reassuring to hear. All superstitions aside, favors were the richest currency among fairies, and to owe one was akin to owing a life debt. Well, one less thing to worry on. 

He toyed with the edge of his bandage, considering; it would keep him from bleeding out, but he knew enough about wounds to know that infection was a very real threat, if it wasn’t treated properly. He glanced at Otabek, the gloom of the night making his face indistinct, and the lack of fire was telling enough. “I need to get back to my camp. For the physician.” 

Otabek frowned. “You shouldn’t move yet.” 

Yuri shifted his weight, and, yeah, there was the light feeling in his head, still threatening, just waiting to tip him back over the edge. It wasn’t too bad. Probably. He bent his knees, getting his feet under him, and ignored the dizziness. It helped to focus on the sharp burn of his wound. 

Otabek was already standing, arms crossed and watching him. Disapproving. 

Yuri fought off a wave of nausea and shot Otabek a slanted grin, steadying himself on his feet. “I’m fine. You’d catch me again, right?” 

Otabek let out an exasperated sound. “Yuri…” 

Yuri stilled, eyes narrowing, and standing was imperative, now. If Otabek knew his name, he would also know his title, and it was an insult to address him improperly. Though, Yuri supposed, family and _friends_ would be allowed to call him by his given name, and, oh, another wave of dizziness made it too much to think about right now. Yuri swayed on his feet. “Prince. _Prince_ Yuri.” 

Otabek inclined his head. “A prince, maybe, but you act like a soldier.” Yuri liked that it didn’t sound indulging. More…admiring. Reverent. Otabek offered a steadying arm, and Yuri leaned against him, closing his eyes to catch his breath. The words buoyed him up, a swell of pride filling his chest. 

“A soldier and a friend.” It sounded a little ridiculous, really, and that made Yuri smile. “Well, this soldier needs to get on his horse and ride back to camp.” Yuri stepped back, enough to stand on his own, and made his way to the dark shape of his horse, catching the stirrup and settling it in place. His leg still ached, and the thought of vaulting into the saddle was daunting, but it was that or walk back on foot. He wasn’t even sure how far away he was, but he was fairly certain it was far enough that walking was out of the question with his injury. 

Otabek didn’t try to help or stop him. Maybe he thought the injury would stop Yuri—or at least the lingering effects of the blood loss would. Or maybe he had realized that Yuri would do what Yuri did, no matter what Otabek said or did, and that Yuri didn’t much care for accepting help from others. 

If it was the latter, then maybe Yuri wouldn’t mind calling him ‘friend,’ after all. 

Yuri was still staring at the stirrup, considering, and he finally looked over his shoulder. “Are you coming with? I think she can carry us both, if we ride double.” He didn’t know where Otabek had come from, or where he was going or what he was doing. It didn’t really matter, because Yuri was already starting to like him, the way he treated Yuri as an equal and not someone to be saved, or someone to simper and bow before. 

_A friend.  
_

Otabek had moved to stand at his horse’s head, and was stroking her nose. “It’s been a while since I’ve ridden a horse.” 

Yuri shrugged. “It’s not something you really forget, but I am an excellent rider, so there’s no need to worry.” Yuri supposed it was a little arrogant—he’d meant it to be reassuring, actually—but it was true. 

“I wasn’t worried. I’ll come with you, if that’s what you’d like.” 

Yuri nodded. With that settled, he took a breath and swung up. The motion made his head swim, a cold sweat prickling over his skin, and he braced his hands against the saddle, hunched forward, until he felt steady again. Otabek didn’t ask how he was, but Yuri could feel his eyes on him, his presence close enough to be reassuring. Yuri held out a hand for him. “Come on.” 

Otabek swung up with more ease than Yuri had, but given the circumstances, it didn’t mean anything—Yuri touched the bandage again, but it was undisturbed. 

The saddle wasn’t meant for two people, so it took some adjusting before they were both seated comfortably, Otabek’s longer legs tucked close behind Yuri’s, feet just below the stirrups. He was warm at Yuri’s back, and Yuri couldn’t remember ever being so close to another person before, but without the arm wrapped securely around Yuri’s waist, Otabek could possibly fall. Or, Yuri thought, _he_ might, in the aftermath of another wave of dizziness. 

It was surprisingly…easy. There was still a thread of wariness plucking at him, and Yuri didn’t exactly trust Otabek, but neither did he feel that the man was a threat. 

Yuri peered through the gloom, and he realized he didn’t know where he was in relation to the road only a moment before Otabek’s voice was at his ear, a hand pointing. “The road is that way.” Yuri guided his horse in the general direction, but let her pick her own way, and it turned out they hadn’t been far from the road—just enough to be out of sight. The corpses of the bandits, and his guide, lay where they had fallen, and Yuri made a mental note to send out a group to sort it out. 

Another gesture from Otabek confirmed the direction Yuri had come from, and they continued on. The ride back took longer than it had going the opposite direction, but the combination of darkness, Yuri’s injury, and the extra rider, forced them to move at a walk. It was quiet, and Yuri found he didn’t mind it, even with the close proximity, the silence companionable, even though they were both alert for the possibility of more attackers. 

The went unaccosted. 

Instead, they were found by a search party from the camp, before they had quite made it back, the colors of the royal crest illuminated by torchlight making Yuri straighten his posture. Otabek was silent at his back as Yuri snapped orders, forestalling any questions, until the riders had dispersed to carry them out. 

“As if I can’t take care of myself,” Yuri grumbled, once they were alone again, his mare picking her way along the path more surely by the light of a torch. Despite his words, he could feel himself listing, struggling to keep his eyes open. It was late, and the pain from his leg was a steady drain on his energy, and probably he should’ve made as much clear, but. Yuri wasn’t about to show weakness, when they were so close to declaring war. 

Otabek hummed. “You’re their prince.” He said it as if it explained everything, and in a way, it did. Why Yuri couldn’t accept help back to camp, and why there had been search parties sent out for him in the first place. 

Yuri managed to hold himself up until they reached the camp, and then kept his back rigid as they rode through towards the physician’s tent. Yuri pretended he didn’t notice Otabek’s arm firm around him, supporting him until Yuri reined his horse in. 

After that— 

Yuri’s world grew fuzzy and indistinct, his last shred of energy pulling him down. He was aware of low voices, and somehow he’d gotten from his horse to the inside of the physician’s tent, without causing a stir, but that was about the time blackness stole over him once more. 

.o. 

Waking with the reveille was much more natural than the last time Yuri had swam up to consciousness. 

He felt better, too. A little weak, still, when he pushed himself to sit up on his pallet, but his head didn’t spin, and the pain in his leg was only a dull throb. He was still in the physician’s tent, and that made him scowl, but he supposed it was better to walk out on his own power than the alternative of being carried. 

“Your Highness.” 

Yuri glanced up at the lined face of the physician, accepting the offered water. “Where’s Otabek?” Yuri frowned and pulled back the blankets to better examine his injury, but there was nothing to be seen except a clean bandage. Somehow it was disappointing that it wasn’t the one from Otabek; he could tell the difference in the texture. 

“Otabek, Sir?” The physician looked puzzled for a moment, before raising her eyebrows. “Perhaps you mean the young man who accompanied you here. I apologize, I did not know his name. I’m afraid I’m not sure where he went.” 

Yuri blinked, processing her words. His own thoughts were conflicting—if Otabek was his friend, then where did he go? But Yuri didn’t want to fussed over, so he’d done the right thing in leaving Yuri to mend on his own. Right? Still, Yuri didn’t quite like waking without knowing where Otabek had gone. Had he even remained at the camp, or already moved on? 

Yuri snapped his gaze back to the physician. “Find him and have him sent to my tent.” And, because he didn’t have any other explanation, “I have to thank him properly.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Yuri waited until she’d bowed out to tug his boots and armor back on. There was a raven just outside, perched near his horse, when he emerged from the tent, and Yuri paused and narrowed his eyes at it. Otabek’s words from the night before echoed in his mind, and Yuri’s opinions about ravens and luck quickly rearranged themselves. 

“A friend, huh?”


	3. Part Two - Victor

Victor’s small retinue left the city without the fanfare that had seen off Yuri and his company.

Victor had started preparing for his departure as soon as he’d gotten King Christophe’s letter, and the plans had cemented that same evening, when he received Prince Yuuri’s reply. It was carefully formal, so Victor was unable to glean much about the man himself, but Prince Yuuri had agreed readily enough to meet with Victor on the neutral ground of Chris’s palace, and that was a start.

King Yakov had grumbled, when Victor shared his plan, but in the end, he didn’t stop Victor, because after all, he’d already given Victor his permission to handle the task, and it would be an opportunity to strengthen the bond between Poskana and Esteau. Perhaps, even, an opportunity to sway King Christophe to aide them in battle, and Victor did not discourage his thoughts—it was unlikely that Christophe could be swayed to offer military aid, but Victor hoped it would not come to that.

Victor hoped, instead, to be sending word to Yuri at the border, to halt the imminent conflict.

It was a lucky thing that the capital of Esteau was closer than the border outpost where Yuri was headed, because it meant Victor would likely arrive before Yuri’s force could begin their attack. Even more likely, because Victor could travel faster with his small group, without a host of supply wagons and scores of men and women to force a slower pace. Prince Yuuri would probably arrive after Victor, by perhaps a day, if he encountered no trouble.

But negotiations could take _days_ , and even if they began before any military movements, unless Kings Yakov and Celestino agreed to postpone combat…

It was better to focus on his goal.

Victor traveled as light as he could, though the trunks stacked on the back of his carriage were necessary—filled with the intricate clothing that would be expected from a prince at court, and the usual gifts of goodwill that he would offer to Christophe and Prince Yuuri. It was a journey that would be faster still on horseback, but as a matter of state, Victor had to maintain appearances, and the idleness of sitting in a carriage had the benefit of giving him time to pour over maps and treaties, trade routes and agreements. Another examination of Prince Yuuri’s letter, though it gave him nothing new, and Victor lamented as much to Makkachin, who sat primly on the floor of the carriage.

All told, it was three days’ journey before Esteau’s capital was visible, the street lamps already lit when Victor’s carriage and entourage passed through the gates. An escort was waiting, to guide them to the palace—King Christophe was always a gracious host, and perhaps that aided many of his diplomatic ventures—though Victor had made the journey often enough to find his own way. It felt formal, making the journey on his own instead of as part of his father’s household, and though there was no procession, there was also no mistaking the royal banners of his retinue, and he could see the curious stares of passerby from the window.

The palace courtyard was ringed with people when the carriage stopped, and Victor’s footman had barely opened the door before Chris’s deep baritone was greeting him, the man himself stepping into Victor’s space. “Victor! I’m so pleased you’ve arrived safely.” He extended a jeweled hand to steady Victor as he descended, and then leaned forward with a greeting kiss on each cheek, once Victor stood on solid ground, and Victor had no choice but to return it. When they parted, Chris was smiling, sweeping his gaze over Victor.

King Christophe was dazzling on any occasion, but with his immaculate brocade, Victor couldn’t help an unusual pang of self-consciousness at his own wrinkled travel tunic. He brushed his hands over the fabric, to straighten it (but not to offend), made a conscious effort not to fuss with his braided hair, before bowing with a flourish. “King Christophe. I apologize for making you come all the way out here so late. And to find me in such a state! Do forgive me.”

Victor smiled, and it was a little false, with Chris’s title of king still fresh between them (no matter what the letters said), but Chris was already waving him off. “Victor, we are friends, please. There’s no need for formalities. Oh! You brought Makkachin, too, how delightful!” Victor felt the veneer melt off his smile until it was genuine, watching Chris bend to pet Makkachin, while the poodle wagged his tail and woofed cheerfully. He straightened a moment later. “Come, you must be exhausted. I’ve had rooms readied for you and your people already, and of course the baths are always available. Some food, as well; we have much to discuss, and it’s best to do so over a meal, don’t you think?”

Victor hummed and followed Chris’s lead into the palace, eyes tracking familiar corridors. “Always such a wonderful host. I wish this visit were a simply social call, rather than…the current circumstances.”

Chris gave him a sideways look, his mouth slanted in a half-grin. “Nonsense, Victor. Half of political maneuvering is social visits. I think you’re smart enough to know that.” Victor offered a half shrug. “Even if it weren’t, I find I like any excuse to celebrate. For example!” Chris halted so he could turn to face Victor directly. “I’ve decided to host a masquerade, tomorrow evening.”

Victor wasn’t sure if he liked the sparkle in Chris’s eyes, but he smiled anyway. “A masquerade? Is that ideal?”

A ball would indeed be the perfect opportunity for Victor to turn on the charm and make a good impression on Prince Yuuri—but the effort would be wasted if the prince didn’t even know it was him behind the mask. That was _if_ the Glacius prince arrived in time for the event, and even then, he would likely be travel-weary. As delightful as parties were, they were exhausting, and even Victor had been known to make only a token appearance if the mood struck him.

Chris clapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. “Victor, please, you asked me for my help. Leave everything to me.”

.o.

Victor spent the evening of his arrival catching up with Chris, who had insisted on leaving any talks of negotiation for later. Whenever Victor had tried to broach the subject, he’d been met with the same, _Leave everything to me_ , and a change of subject. After a couple tries—and then a couple drinks—Victor gave it up as a lost cause and abandoned himself to the comforts he’d neglected during his journey.

If he was a little disappointed when Chris turned down his affections, well. Some things had changed, after all, but Victor understood. They had never had more than a casual thing, after all.

He woke, well-rested, in a proper bed, with a proper meal at breakfast, and by the time Chris’s tailors descended on him in the afternoon, he was feeling fresh again, smiling as Makkachin bounced around the group working efficiently around him. It was clear that Chris had already planned for this, the costume nearly complete except for a handful of alterations, and Victor wasn’t sure if he should be impressed by how quickly Chris operated, or if he should be concerned that maybe Chris had only been waiting for an excuse for…whatever he had in mind.

Victor couldn’t fault his taste, though.

By evening, he was being buttoned into the shimmery fabric, and it suited and flattered him in ways that only high Esteau fashion did. He couldn’t help but admire the subtle details of ice blue and silver embroidery on white, like a frost that grew denser along the sleeves, until it seemed his hands were engulfed in it. When he turned in the mirror, the white caught the light _just so_ , and it took on a faint blush of pink that complemented to blue beautifully. A fine, fur-lined caplet tossed carelessly over his shoulders softened the look.

And that was just the clothes.

He tried not to fidget as a young man dabbed cosmetics around his eyes and arranged his hair into something artful and extravagant, nestling a crystal circlet on his brow. And when he tied the mask to Victor’s face, he preened a little, because he made quite the sight. The gems on mask caught the light and diffracted it, the colors landing like sparks on a tuft of feathers climbing into his hair.

Victor strung his signet ring on a chain and tucked it under his clothes, because Chris had insisted on anonymity, though he wasn’t entirely sure his costume did much for that.

His doubts subsided, a little, when he was escorted to the ballroom, already milling with people, all of them bedecked in jeweled tones and sparkling masks and rich fabrics. It was a whirlwind of color and beauty, exactly the kind of thing one would expect from King Christophe, and Victor could practically hear his voice, reminding him to relax and have fun. To forget who he was, because no one would know, anyway.

Except maybe Chris, and Victor recognized him even with the feathered mask when he melted out of the crowd, two champagne flutes in hand.

Victor chuckled as he accepted one, glancing over Chris’s shining black and gold and green, the cascade of peacock feathers trailing from one hip. “My friend, I hope you do not take insult when I say that you are well suited as a peacock.”

Chris lifted his drink in a toast. “I can hardly find fault in such a compliment. And you?” He swept his hand in a gesture at Victor’s own attire. “Do you approve?”

Victor turned in a small circle for his benefit. “Your vision is impeccable, as you’re well aware. An ice prince, though? Don’t you think it’ll give me away?”

Chris flapped a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry so much. Drink your champagne, dance, flirt. Have some fun, by order of the king.” Chris winked. “Or so I hear.”

Victor felt a smile playing at his lips, but he pressed once more. “Has Prince Yuuri arrived?”

Victor didn’t trust Chris’s answering smile. “It’s a masquerade, my friend. Who could say?”  Which Victor was fairly certain meant _yes_ , though he could never be sure with Chris. In any case, it meant that there would be no introductions tonight, formal or otherwise, and it was futile to do anything other than play along. Having never met Prince Yuuri, he had to place his faith in Chris.

He knocked back the rest of his champagne with a flourish. “Very well, _sir_ , may I have the honor of a dance, since you so adamantly insist?”

Chris accepted with aplomb, catching Victor’s hand and pulling him into the thick of the crowd, and it was hard not to get caught in the moment, formalities forgotten under the parade of masks, the steps of the dance. Chris handed him off to a lady with long brown hair and Cupid’s bow lips, dressed as a butterfly in pinks and purples, trailing ribbons and just as graceful, even balancing her own flute of champagne, and when the music stopped, they shared more champagne, trading laughs and bawdy jokes and half-serious flirtations.

As he danced from person to beautiful person, Victor lost track of how much champagne he’d drunk, but he felt lighter than he had in years, and that, he supposed, was the point. It made him a little reckless, and he was tempted to whisper to any one of his dance partners, sultry words to lead them back to his bed, and they would, even without knowing who he was, and that was a thrill. He caught glimpses of Chris through the crowd, cheeks flushed and mouth set in a familiar curve, and wondered if that had been part of his plan.

He was still rolling the idea around in his mind, sipping water as he leaned against a marble column, when his gaze landed on the butterfly from his second dance, only a few paces away. He considered her, for a moment, before closing the distance, but before he could catch her attention, she was turning in response to someone else. Victor followed her gaze—and froze.

The other man was flushed and smiling, leaning against the lady, and Victor would’ve thought—but it didn’t matter what he thought, because a pair of shining brown eyes were peering at him from behind a glittering black mask, a voice slurring out, “Minako, who’s this? He’s very pretty, introduce us. Pleeaaase?”

The lady—Minako—was tutting him even as she glanced back at Victor, but Victor was too busy gaping at _the literal embodiment of the god of love_ , his thoughts quickly rearranging themselves to coalesce on the vision in black and indigo and violet stepping around her. Perhaps he had had a bit too much to drink, because he was tempted to kneel at those feet—clad in thigh-high boots—and gaze up, admire the skin peeking through floral cut-outs of sheer fabric, and he wondered if it was as soft as the flowers—purple orchids and pink rosettes—that climbed one side of the glittery mask to tangle with black hair.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Minako muttered, plucking a champagne glass from the man’s hand. He looked put-out, until she added, “Why don’t you two go dance?”

The man brightened and bowed with surprising grace. “Eros, at your service,” he purred, and then he giggled as he straightened, and it should’ve ruined the effect, but Victor found himself utterly charmed, the sound honest and endearing.

Victor returned the bow, offering his hand, spidery blue frost at his wrist to confirm his fictitious title, “The ice prince, at yours. May I have this dance?”

Eros tittered and took his hand, and Victor found himself swept up in his tipsy energy as they twisted and twirled, his feet feeling as if they barely touched the floor. Everything was bright and twinkling around them, but Victor’s eyes kept catching instead on the hints of flesh under violet organza, the curve of floral embroidery hugging a trim waist, the pink of flushed cheeks and plump, kissable lips.

But one did not simply _kiss_ the god of love. It would be blasphemy, but oh, Victor so wanted to be a heretic.

Yet every time he was close enough, Eros danced away, teasing, leaving Victor to chase breathlessly after. Even then, when Victor cornered him on a balcony, Eros laughed and ducked under his arm, and he should’ve been stumbling on his feet, as drunk as he seemed to be, but he was all lithe grace, as if even alcohol could not diminish him. Victor wondered what kind of man he would be, sober, if he was this delightful now.

  


art by [@deadfreckledboys](http://deadfreckledboys.tumblr.com)

“Marry me!” Victor blurted, catching his hand, before Eros could dance away again.

Eros’s face grew even more red, his eyes bright and crinkled at the corners, and he giggled, hiding the sound behind his free hand. “Ah, I’m flattered, but even a prince cannot sway the god of love!”

Victor’s heart dropped, and for a moment he feared that he’d been discovered, forgetting his costume, the Crown Prince of Poskana proposing marriage, and that was no small thing, but it didn’t matter, he wanted to keep this one all for himself. But the man could only be teasing, because he wasn’t Eros under his mask, even if Victor _was_ a prince under his own. Victor’s lips curled into a smile, and he tugged Eros closer, to trail his fingers over those flushed cheeks. “Then, perhaps a man might be swayed, hmm?” He touched the edge of the Eros mask, caught in the other’s gaze for a long moment.

And then Eros was pulling away, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and Victor wanted his own lips there, instead. He tilted his head and said, “Dance with me,” but what Victor heard was _worship me_ , and he would, gladly.

They slipped back into the sea of taffeta and silks and colors together, though they did not follow the ordered steps of the court dance, this time. Instead, theirs was a sensuous dance, teasingly close, with lingering touches, and though they were both fully dressed, Victor felt on fire wherever Eros’s fingers trailed. There was nothing overtly sexual about it, not really, but it still felt like an echo of what he wanted to do behind closed doors, and it was _scandalous_ , especially surrounded by the highest of high society, nobility and royalty. And they were attracting attention, too, and surely some of them recognized Victor’s silvery hair.

He couldn’t find it in himself to care; let them stare, let them envy him and his shining, sparkling god.

They caught their breath against the cool stone of a wall, Eros leaning against Victor, and Victor wanted to draw him closer, to untie the ribbon holding the mask in place so he could see the man beneath. Wanted to whisper, _I would worship you even as a man_ , anything, anything that would lure Eros back with him, to hold onto his endearing, lopsided smile. His hand was on Eros’s back, the damp silk and organza of his costume, and Victor trailed it up, until his fingers found bare skin, just above the man’s collar, and then the shorter hair at his nape, and it would be blasphemy, for sure, but Eros’s eyes had slipped shut in rapture, and that was the most beautiful thing Victor had ever seen.

But there was a butterfly fluttering into their private moment, hiccuping and giggling, and though she wavered a little, she still managed a perfect curtsy. “Your Majesty,” and Victor supposed that was him, even if it was a fictional title tonight. “ _Eros_.” And then he was slipping out of Victor’s reach again, mouth set in a regretful little pout, but Victor was starting to feel the effects of a long night, of alcohol and dancing, and he reacted too slowly.

_He was gone_.

Victor blinked, trying to find Eros or his companion in the dwindling throngs of people, pushing past them in his frantic search, but it was as if he’d faded into a puff of smoke, blown away by the wind.

Victor found Chris, instead, and he caught his friend’s arm, hissing at him, “Did you see where he went?”  And he didn’t really have to clarify who _he_ was, because Victor had spent more than half the night in thrall to Eros, and Chris at least would have noticed.

Chris was a little drunk, too, eyes sparkling from behind his mask, his smile accompanied with a low chuckle.  “Your Eros?”  He produced a purple orchid, and Victor missed the motion, couldn’t tell where he’d had it, but it was unmistakable, the same as the ones that had been tangled in Eros’s hair, and he was dizzy as he accepted it from Chris, holding it delicately in one hand.  “I’m sure you’ll see him again, my friend.”

Victor tightened his grip on Chris’s arm.  “You don’t understand!  I want to marry him!”

Chris let out a startled laugh, and patted Victor on the hand.  “What an excellent idea!  Very well, we’ll find your Eros tomorrow, and you can declare your love in broad daylight.”  It should’ve sounded patronizing, Victor even expected it to, but mostly it sounded teasing, and Chris had his own history of extravagances, so perhaps it was that, and Victor nodded numbly, his head spinning a little.

The masquerade lost its appeal, without Eros, because Victor had no interest in dancing with anyone else, now, and there was no point in trying to satisfy his hunger with anything but what he most craved, and he was almost surprised, when Chris trailed after him, into the relative quiet of the corridors.  They staggered into each other, a few times, before unanimously deciding to link arms, laughing at themselves as they wandered through the palace, Chris leading the way, and it was like they were young again, in peaceful times, after a night of drinking, before the weight of a crown had settled so heavily on them.  They could pretend a little longer, if they left their masks on, but dawn would be soon enough, and the magic would be gone.

They didn’t talk about it, but an ice prince bid good night to a peacock, who directed him to the right door, murmuring, “Here you are,” and they parted with the chaste kiss of friends.

Victor closed the door behind him with a sigh, and gave a half smile when Makkachin roused from sleep to greet him.  Victor patted him on the head, and the poodle followed him as he stepped fully into his suite.

He was reluctant to pull at the ribbon that tied his mask in place, but he was tired.  There was a bell that would call for a servant, so he tugged that, first, because he couldn’t quite reach all the buttons of his costume on his own, and then he removed his mask, placing it carefully on the top of his desk.  It took him a moment to notice the hawk perched on the chair back, his eyes struggling to focus on the correspondence that bore his father’s seal, and then he fumbled a little, trying not to disturb the hawk too much.

He pulled a flickering candle closer to read it.  It contained a brief report of Yuri’s progress—Victor was pleased that his brother had been delayed, even though he was sure Yuri would be furious—and a reminder that Yakov would have his exact demands met and no less, if Glacius wanted peace.

Victor penned a curt response, pausing to call in the servant knocking at his door, and then, before he signed it, he added one more line.  _Father, with your permission, I_ _’ve found someone I wish to marry_.  Victor held the orchid up to his face, breathing in its sweet scent, and then nestled it in among the feathers of his own mask.

And, given the complexity of his costume, it was probably better that he hadn’t managed to lure Eros to bed, because it would’ve been a shame to ruin the fine fabric.

_But worth it_ , his mind supplied, especially if he’d been able to return the favor, and once he was alone again, Victor fell into bed, dreaming of creamy skin flushed with passion.


	4. Part Three - Yuri

Despite Yuri’s run-in with the bandits the night before, there was very little delay in breaking camp to set out on the final leg of their march. 

There had been a report on the low table in his tent when he’d entered, from the party sent to deal with the corpses. The guide’s horse had returned to camp during the night, injured, but not fatally. His guide’s death was no surprise, and for the most part, the report read as he’d expected it to—except to note that some of the corpses looked like they had been disturbed by a bear. Yuri counted himself lucky, then, that he and Otabek had managed to avoid a run-in with the beast, though the commotion of the full force would probably scare it off, if it was still lingering farther up the road. 

There was no sign of Otabek. 

Yuri had made a point to clear himself of any debt that Otabek could claim, and yet there was a part of him that knew he had to repay him somehow. At least offer a proper thanks, as he’d claimed to the physician, but even more, there was the claim of friendship. 

Waiting around for someone who was practically a stranger was no excuse to delay forward progress, but that didn’t mean Yuri couldn’t rein his horse in to one side of the cleared camp and watch as his force formed a neat column and rode out. If his eyes strayed towards the woods, or if he was looking for a certain stern-looking face, well. No one was the wiser. 

It didn’t take much for his earlier restlessness to return, along with a thread of irritation that was only made worse by the pull of the stitches on his leg, and a missing Otabek. He didn’t know where Otabek had come from, or what he’d been doing in the woods, and he was still more than a little suspicious that the man wasn’t truly a _man._ That Yuri couldn’t even say for sure was maddening. He usually had a sense for that sort of thing. It was something he knew in his blood, in the rhymes and patterns his mother had taught him, but fae were always tricky. 

Fae or not, what was Otabek going to do? March with Yuri’s army? Would he? Did Yuri _want_ him to? He’d been capable enough to cut down Yuri’s attackers the night before, but it was one thing to defend against bandits, and quite another to be trained for battle. Just because Yuri wanted him around—if that were indeed what he wanted, he was still deciding—didn’t mean Otabek would find a place with the rest of his force. Nothing could replace the camaraderie between men and women who had already trained together for weeks, months, or even years. 

And Yuri had never played favorites. He wouldn’t start here. 

Not that he could. Not that he could even _ask_ Otabek about any of it, because _Otabek had disappeared_. It shouldn’t have bothered him. Yuri had no reason to expect anything from him, because the word _friend_ was just that: a word. It had no meaning for someone like Yuri. 

A day’s march was a long stretch of time in which Yuri had little more to do than think. Riding was second nature, and without any of the earlier delays and detours, it was practically mindless, broken up only by the occasional report from outriders—but they were close enough to the outpost that those were only superfluous, at best. 

It meant that Yuri spent that time brooding, scowl etching itself deeper and deeper into his face as the day wore on. It meant that no one approached Yuri to engage him in the few conversations that usually peppered a march—or if they did, they were met with sharp words and a scathing glare—which meant that Yuri had even more time in his head. He was used to a parade of self-important people, nameless faces blurring in his memory, because even if he was the second prince, he was still _a prince_ , and it was human nature to want favor with someone of high stature. 

Except, Otabek hadn’t seemed to care that he was a prince. Had even said he acted like a soldier, and treated him as such. 

It occurred to Yuri, belatedly, that he hadn’t seen Otabek except in the half-light of the moon, blurred in motion or in a haze from blood loss, and even though his features had been striking, Yuri couldn’t be sure he’d be able to recognize Otabek if he saw him again. It only added to his well-settled ire. 

Mila was perhaps the only one who could approach him when his temper was high. It would be incorrect to say that she was the only one he could tolerate; that much was true, but in the end she was the only one who could withstand the tirades that Yuri snarled out to anyone who dared to bother him. So it was unsurprising that she was the one to rein her horse in next to Yuri late in the afternoon, eyebrow quirked in an angle to match her mouth. “You’re in a foul mood. Your Highness.” 

His title was spoken like an afterthought—purposely, Yuri expected—and he glared at her. “Fuck off, hag.” 

Mila’s mouth curved up a little more, a sharp glint in her eye. “If you want to fight, Highness, at least wait until we get to the outpost. I’ll gladly spar another round, or five—we can go until we kill each other, if you like.” 

“I ought to kill you for your disrespect,” Yuri growled. It was an empty threat; Mila was his second as much for her skill as for her thick skin. She also knew just how to prick Yuri to distract him from fuming over Otabek’s disappearance, so that the rest of the ride was spent scowling at her instead, exchanging barbed insults that became more and more ridiculous, until the heat of his anger had cooled to something more manageable. 

The sun was getting low when they arrived. The outpost was a fortified keep that would be their base of operations for their initial attack, one that Yuri had probably visited on a tour with his father when he was younger. If he had visited, he’d been too young to remember, or else he would’ve surveyed the stone walls, gauging them for strength. They looked adequate from a distance, as did the stonework around the gate as he passed through with his company, but he was already passing an order for a thorough inspection. They didn’t expect a siege, but it was better to be prepared.

A welcoming party already stood perched on the steps of the keep as Yuri’s force formed up in the yard, neat ranks that spread across the courtyard until there was no space left, the tramp of boots echoing against the walls before dying out as they settled into place. It was to acknowledge their hosts’ hospitality, as much as it was a show of strength, and Yuri supposed he ought to greet them properly, but his patience for the day had long fizzled out. 

He cast a withering glance over the men and women gathered at the steps, dressed in what was probably their best, though nothing in comparison to anything he or Victor owned. Not that Yuri cared; he wasn’t impressed by a person’s clothing. It was the man he assumed was the governing lord, standing a little above everyone else, that made his mouth tighten, just shy of a scowl. Another self-important noble puffing his chest up for royalty, even if Yuri was only the second son, already launching into a speech, _what an honor it is to serve the crown, blah blah blah_. 

Victor would be a gracious guest, Yuri thought, but he was not a prince known for pretty manners. 

“You do a great service for the crown,” Yuri intoned from atop his horse. It sounded flat and insincere, but he supposed that was better than the irritation that lay bitter on his tongue, and if the lord disapproved of his tone, he hid it well. He signaled his captains over. “Georgi will coordinate with you for the accommodation of my men and women. I have matters that require my immediate attention. Mila, with me.” 

Yuri could hear Georgi’s voice behind him as he and Mila rode toward the stables, and then the sounds of orders called out, of the ranks turning into organized chaos to settle into the barracks. The wound on Yuri’s leg ached when he dismounted, but it was a dull pain, easily ignored in favor of the prickle of anticipation. 

There was no preamble—Yuri and Mila handed their horses off to a groom and then they were vaulting over a fence into an empty paddock. Yuri had barely drawn his sword before Mila’s was crashing against his blade. It was dangerous, to use their swords instead of the dulled practice blades, but Yuri _felt_ dangerous, needed it to have some consequence. He could’ve died the night before. This was nothing, only speed and the clang and hiss of metal on metal. Mila was better than Georgi, and nearly as good as Yuri, so that Yuri had to _work_ if he wanted to win. 

He barely noticed it when darkness settled over the yard, too caught up in the fluid dance of mock-battle, but it was full dark when he finally drew the tip of his sword back from where it had been threatening Mila’s throat. “Enough.” The word came out in a ragged gasp, and he helped Mila to her feet before turning to slump against the fence. They’d had an audience, some of his people and some of the keep’s staff, and he could tell even in the low light which weren’t his by how quickly they skittered away from the perimeter of the makeshift sparring ring. 

“Satisfied now, Your Highness?” Mila passed Yuri a water skin from a helpful servant, looking weary but smiling at the scowl Yuri shot her. 

“I’m fine.” He snatched the skin and straightened, still frowning, but he ducked his head in an affirmative. It felt good, to burn out his energy, his anger, like this, until he had nothing to think about but the aches in his limbs, the sweat on his brow. It was freeing. 

From there, it was a blur of routine, because for all that this wasn’t Yuri’s home, it was like every other keep and castle he’d been to, a machine flitting with its occupants as they tried to impress royalty, dizzying with the airs and etiquette, and Yuri was glad he could deflect it by claiming other duties and exhaustion. It wasn’t untrue, though he could easily have left much of it to Mila and Georgi. 

But they couldn’t handle everything, and once he was in his room, Yuri placed his father’s sealed war declaration in the center of his table, and stared at it. It was to be sent in the morning, already later than any of them had intended. But he was here, now, and he would make sure their attack was more successful than the march here. 

Yuri tucked the declaration away, and penned another letter to King Yakov to inform him of Yuri’s arrival and subsequent plan of action. It was late enough that the corridors were mostly empty when Yuri stepped out of his room, parchment in his pocket and a lamp in hand.  He picked his way back outside, up to the battlements, with little interruption other than the murmured greetings from posted guards. 

There were no mews at this keep, but a messenger hawk was never beyond hearing distance, and Yuri could feel the slight tingle of magic on his lips as he whistled the call. 

He didn’t have to wait long to hear a flutter of wings, and he turned toward the sound. A hawk had landed nearby, its attention not on Yuri, but on the figure leaning against the wall just next to it. 

“This hawk must consider you a great friend, to come at your call.” 

Yuri frowned at the sound of Otabek’s rich voice, but he couldn’t help a long look, taking in his dark hair and eyes, his features as stern as he’d remembered. Perhaps a bit more striking in the light of the lamp, in fact, now that Yuri could see him a bit more clearly. Yuri twisted his mouth into something more akin to a pout. “Would you? Come if I called?” 

Otabek’s eyebrows drew together slightly. “That depends. Are you going to be my friend, or not?” There was a hint of exasperation in his voice that made Yuri’s mouth curl up at the corners, amused. 

He’d spent the entire day considering that question, so it was easy to say, “Okay.” No one had ever bothered to ask if he wanted to be friends, at least not sincerely, without motives—and he’d learned early to tell the difference—and that, in the end, was the deciding factor. That, and…he wanted to. Otabek was an enigma, and Yuri wanted to know more about him. “I’ll be your friend.” Yuri offered his hand for Otabek to shake, a little self-conscious, because he was only half-sure that that was what friends did. 

Otabek’s answering smile was subtle; Yuri was only able to see it because he’d been studying Otabek’s face a moment before Otabek accepted his hand in a firm handshake. “Good.” 

Yuri pulled his hand back reluctantly, his skin buzzing and warm, and he had to take his eyes off of Otabek’s face before he got overwhelmed. _Fae_ , he thought again, and this time he was nearly certain. He set his lamp down and busied himself retrieving the parchment from his pocket and tying it to the hawk’s leg, hyper-aware of Otabek quietly watching him. “I didn’t see you come up,” he said conversationally. “Or arrive, for that matter.” 

“I was here already.” 

Yuri glanced at him. “Here, or _here_?” 

Otabek made a broad gesture to indicate the keep. “Here.” He flicked his eyes down, and then back up at Yuri. “I was curious what you were doing up _here_.” 

“Sending a letter, as you see.” Yuri murmured to the hawk and watched it take wing. Once it had disappeared into the darkness, he leaned against the wall next to Otabek, turning to give him his full attention. “I’m curious, too: how did you get here before me? Did you know I was coming here?” Yuri took some pride in the fact that it didn’t sound accusatory. He realized with a start that he didn’t want to offend Otabek—that he actually cared what Otabek thought of him. 

Otabek caught his eye and held it. “It’s faster, as the raven flies.” 

Yuri narrowed his eyes. It was practically an admission. “I thought it was as the _crow_ flies.” 

Otabek pursed his lips. “Crows are less reliable.” 

It was so candid that Yuri was startled into a laugh. “Really. Then what about the hawks?” He gestured out into the open air of the night. 

Otabek gave him a withering look. “They’re a different family. Of course you can’t compare them.” 

Yuri quirked an eyebrow. “Of course.” 

Otabek lifted his shoulders, a movement that wasn’t quite a shrug. “She’ll see your letter delivered.” 

Yuri nodded. “I should hope so.” He gazed out into the night, the sky dotted with stars, and the fields beyond the walls of the keep invisible except for the glow of watch fires. His future lay beyond these walls: the roar of battle and the euphoria of victory. 

And Otabek had nothing to do with it. Yuri still wasn’t even sure what their friendship would entail. 

“We’ve been marching to war,” Yuri murmured at length. “But you probably already knew that.” Otabek inclined his head. “You fought of those men with me. You’re a fighter, too, aren’t you? You should join me.” 

Otabek exhaled quietly. “It is not a battle for me to fight.” He was staring out into the night, too, but he turned to look at Yuri. “In fact, my duty is to delay you. As a favor to the queen.” 

Yuri swung his head around, gaze cold as it fixed on Otabek. “You what.” 

Otabek didn’t flinch from the hard stare. “The queen said someone needed to delay the army while Prince Victor negotiated with Glacius, to maintain the peace. She didn’t ask me particularly. I volunteered, because I wanted to meet you.” 

Yuri crossed his arms, back rigid. “My mother, the queen. Who cannot be found, and has not otherwise been heard from. Why wouldn’t she come, herself, and give her protests directly to Father?”

Otabek spread his hands. “A domestic dispute, as it’s been told. I have proof—” 

Yuri cut him off with a grunt of irritation. “There’s no need. I believe you, if only because I know my parents.” Yuri had been witness to enough of their arguments, some about the ruling of the country, some personal, and even a few about himself and Victor, to find nothing surprising about Otabek’s statement. It left him weary, suddenly, and he heaved a sigh. 

He had thought he might, for once, have a chance to distinguish himself with his own skill, to outshine Victor in something meaningful. And now this. He would be wrong no matter what course of action he took. It made his stomach churn. 

Yuri dropped his hands at his sides and turned away. “I’ve been delayed enough.” He didn’t try to hide the bitterness in his voice. “I have my own duty, which begins at dawn.” Yuri picked up his lamp, and looked back over his shoulder; Otabek’s expression was inscrutable. In another situation, he would’ve simply walked away, but he paused, hesitant. Because even if Otabek was interfering, it was at Queen Lilia’s behest. And he’d been forthright about it, at least. 

Yuri liked that about him. And they were friends, after all. 

So he murmured, “Good night, Otabek,” before he walked away. 

Otabek echoed him, and Yuri heard the sound of wings a moment later. There was no one else on the battlements, when Yuri looked back again, and it came as no surprise. 

.o. 

It was still dark when Yuri woke, the reveille audible even from the chambers he’d been given in the keep. 

The gray, pre-dawn atmosphere was charged, sending prickles over his skin as he dressed. It was today, finally, after more than a week, after days of delays. He would send his father’s declaration and they could begin their march to war, into Glacius’s lands. 

He could finally, finally show them that he was just as capable a leader as Victor. Better, even. 

The hawk had flown in through the half-open window while he strapped on his armor, and Yuri glanced at the brief reply from King Yakov. He was to continue according to plan, and Yuri turned to retrieve the sealed declaration, to tie to the hawk’s leg. 

He stopped short. 

It was gone. 

Yuri breathed a curse and wracked his memory, trying to recall if he’d moved it later in the evening, and began frantically rifling through his belongings. He’d only packed essentials, so it was a short search—one that ended in more cursing when the document did not turn up. 

Without his father’s seal, a war declaration would be invalid, and marching without one would be a breach in honor. Whatever Yuri thought of the necessity of _announcing_ his movements, he couldn’t afford to go against King Yakov’s orders. 

Which included an official declaration. 

Yuri cursed again and shoved his door open, yelling for the guards stationed in the hall.  Perhaps a servant, his mind supplied quickly; no one else would’ve been allowed in his rooms.  The guards scurried at Yuri’s order to summon the night watch and the servant who had laid the fire in his room the night before. 

As Yuri turned back to his room, to look again, it occurred to him that he already knew who might have an interest in delaying him further. 

The corridors were a flurry of chaotic activity as Yuri stalked back up to the battlements, calling out curt replies to his captains as he passed them.  They would be ready to move out at his order.  If he could even issue the order. 

It was calmer up top, the guards stationed there ones that would remain as part of the keep’s defense.  Yuri barely spared them a glance before he took a position looking out, and perhaps another time he might’ve been concerned about the image he made, calling out an unfamiliar name to the rising sun, but he was sure that Otabek would come at his call.  He had no basis for it other than instinct, and still no reason to really trust the other, but…Otabek would.  If he was Yuri’s friend. 

Yuri could project his voice; it was a trait that was useful for calling out orders on the field.  But one didn’t order friends, so instead Yuri whistled a variation of his hawk call, weaving Otabek’s name into the notes, counting on the magic to carry the sound, rather than his voice. 

Yuri crossed his arms as he scanned the sky, waiting. 

The croak of a raven caught his attention, sounding from behind him (again), and by the time he’d turned, Otabek was there, standing in a shadowed alcove.  Yuri was struck again by his sharp features, and he found it hard to be angry at _Otabek_.  Not when he was only a messenger, and not when he’d readily come at Yuri’s call. 

But he was still angry, exhausted by the delays, and it lent an edge to his voice when he stated, “I seem to be missing an important document signed by the king.” 

Otabek stared at him impassively.  “Is that why you called me?” 

Yuri huffed a sigh.  “I called to see if you would come.” 

Otabek spread his hands.  “If a friend calls, I come.” 

“So I see.”  Yuri closed some of the distance between them.  “As it turns out, this missing document would cause yet another delay.” 

Otabek cocked his head to one side, dark eyes studying Yuri.  “Yes, I would think so.”  Yuri made a noise of frustration; he hadn’t really expected anything more, but still. 

“Fine,” he snapped, finally.  “If I must be delayed, _again_ , then so be it.”  He dropped his hands to his sides and glanced aside, before settling to lean against the wall.  What difference did another day or two make, in the end?  At least they were no longer confined to drafty tents.  He doubted Victor’s ability to convince both King Yakov and King Celestino to agree to negotiations, and it was only a matter of time before he was leading his men and women into battle.  He wasn’t exactly happy about it, but he could grit his teeth through it.  In any case, there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it, if Queen Lilia had enlisted a fae’s help to delay him. 

A fae that had offered friendship, and Yuri wanted to know, “So tell me why you’re here.  I mean, why you volunteered.” 

“Ah.”  The sun was a little higher now, and when Yuri looked at him from the corner of his eye, he realized that this was the first time he’d seen Otabek in daylight.  It was hard to drag his gaze away, and Yuri wondered how much of that was an inherently fae trait, and how much of it was natural appeal.  “You probably wouldn’t remember, but I saw you once, at the palace.  I came with a delegation to visit the queen.  Even at court, you had the eyes of a soldier, and when I saw you training—you moved as if you were made to fight.  I admired your strength.” 

Yuri frowned.  “And yet you volunteered to keep me from fighting.” 

Otabek turned to look out at the fields past the keep’s walls.  “Yuri, I don’t think anything could keep you from fighting.”  Yuri made a noise of agreement.  “But, perhaps this isn’t a battle for you to fight, either.”  He shrugged.  “It is not my place to say.” 

Yuri considered Otabek’s words, and after a moment, sighed.  He couldn’t imagine what else he could do, beyond this.  How else to distinguish himself, in the eyes of his family, of his country.  How else to escape Victor’s shadow. 

He stood next to Otabek, and they gazed into the distance together, a silence that was more comfortable than anything else Yuri was used to.  He thought about the easy way he and Otabek had ridden together, the other night, and it made something settle in him.  It also reminded him, “I meant to thank you properly.  For what you did the other night.  You left before I could.” 

Otabek turned towards him.  “I told you, there is no debt.” 

Yuri pursed his lips.  “Still.  Thank you.”  There was a commotion back where the guards were posted, and Yuri looked over to see Mila pushing past them to make her way towards Yuri.  “Ah.  I will have to inform my captains of the change in plans.”  Otabek shifted as if to leave; Yuri stopped him with a hand on his arm.  “Wait, no, don’t leave.  Since you’ve insisted on keeping me from my duty, you ought to stay and make up for it.” 

Otabek’s eyebrows raised a fraction, and he glanced at Yuri’s hand on his arm, then back up to his face.  “Alright, then.”


	5. Part Three - Victor

Victor woke to the sound of someone knocking at his door. 

His first instinct was to bury his head under his pillow and ignore it, but the person at the door was persistent. And while the knocking wasn’t _loud_ , it was enough to bounce around in his skull until his head ached—a consequence of indulging in a bit too much champagne, the night before—and Victor croaked out an attempt at a response just to get the sound to stop. 

A muffled voice came from behind the door. “Your Highness?” 

Victor cleared his throat and tried again. “Enter.” He didn’t move from his nest of pillows and blankets as the servant moved around his room, except to draw a quilt over his head when he started drawing the curtains back, the light too bright, too soon, and he let out a groan. 

“My apologies, Sir.” The rustle of fabric stopped, and Victor hazarded a look outside of the safety of his blanket when the servant’s steps drew closer to his bed. He set a pitcher of water and a goblet at the bedside table, _bless him_ , and Victor sat up enough to drink. He hadn’t overindulged so much as to be sick, at least, and the water did wonders for clearing his head. He patted Makkachin’s head absently as he sipped, smiling when it earned him a cheerful _yip_. 

Victor wiped the grit from his eyes and turned his attention to the servant tending his room. “Has King Christophe sent any word about today’s agenda?” The servant paused in his duties to give Victor a low bow, before handing him a card, and Victor thanked him. 

The flowing script inside the card was familiar, and Victor gave silent thanks for his host’s thoughtfulness—they all deserved a good lie-in, according to Chris, so formal introductions would be made during a late breakfast. And a post-script: that if Victor still wanted to find his Eros, Chris would do everything in his power to give aid. 

The reminder of his mysterious dance partner from the night before jolted Victor out of bed, banishing the last vestiges of sleep. He _had_ to find him. Of course the peace negotiations would take first priority, but…the memory of those warm brown eyes, framed in glittery black, flushed cheeks and shared exhilaration… 

Even now, Victor wanted him. Wanted to _know_ him, because anyone else would’ve thrown themselves into his bed, and instead his Eros had danced away, teasing. It was an invitation to give chase, wasn’t it? He would. 

Victor strode over to his desk, and touched a finger to the orchid nestled among the feathers of his discarded mask. It had withered a little, overnight, but it was still lovely and fragrant. Proof that Eros hadn’t simply been a dream. 

A flutter of wings dragged his attention away: a hawk entering through the window to land on the chair back, where it eyed Makkachin warily. Victor untied the message absently, eyes still flickering back to the orchid, mind abuzz with the thought of the search for _him,_ until he’d unrolled the message and he stared down at his father’s practical handwriting. 

Victor frowned, rereading the words. _Marriage? Don_ _’t be foolish, Victor. We can discuss a suitable match for you when you return, but I will not allow you to act on such a whim. You must focus on gaining King Christophe’s aid against Glacius.  
_

That was the extent of the message, and Victor tossed it on the table with a huff of irritation. “It’s not a _whim_ ,” he told Makkachin. “He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met, I would be a fool if I _didn_ _’t_ marry him.” Makkachin tilted his head serenely, tail wagging in response. 

Victor tried not to dwell on King Yakov’s words as he bathed and dressed. His father could be convinced, Victor was certain. Fairly certain. He would definitely be more receptive if Victor succeeded here in Esteau, and with that in mind, Victor composed himself, preparing for breakfast. 

He must start by making a good impression on Prince Yuuri, by dressing to charm and flatter and dazzle, and while his ensemble wasn’t quite as extravagant as the costume Chris had prepared for him, Victor still cut an impressive figure. White again—because that was his color—but this time he was dressed in an impeccable uniform, complete with gold buttons and epaulets, a froth of a cravat and supple thigh-high boots; kid gloves that were soft and elegant. His hair he swept into a low ponytail and secured with a golden ribbon. 

It was an afterthought to tuck the orchid into a breast pocket, but Victor liked the idea of keeping the token close to his heart. 

Makkachin trotted merrily at Victor’s heels as a servant led him to Chris’ breakfast room, and the smell of food quickened his step, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. Chris was there already, the smiling and gracious host as ever, speaking to the two other men who were seated at the table with him. He brightened when he saw Victor, and sprang to his feet to greet him with a hug. 

“Victor, good morning! I hope you slept well.” Victor nodded and plastered a smile onto his face automatically, his eyes flicking to the other men, already on their feet. They were both dark-haired and dark-eyed, dressed for court, but the one nearest to Chris had to be Prince Yuuri. He was staring at Victor, eyes wide and face pink, and Victor had barely a chance to wonder at it before Chris’ smooth voice interrupted his thoughts. “Now that you’re here I can make an official introduction.” 

Chris stepped back and spread his arms with a flourish. “Crown Prince Victor of Poskana, meet Crown Prince Yuuri of Glacius, and his companion, Lord Phichit Chulanont.” 

The wide-eyed man stepped forward to accept Victor’s offered hand, stuttering, “P-pleased to meet you, Prince Victor.” Behind him, Lord Chulanont offered a small bow, a smile playing at his lips. 

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Prince Yuuri.” Victor let his smile tilt into something charming, rolling the _r_ the same way Chris had: a perfect pronunciation. This made Prince Yuuri’s face turn from pink to red, and Victor fought the urge to purse his lips in curiosity. Surely he wasn’t intimidating? They were equals, and Prince Yuuri must be accustomed to the social demands that came with his position. Was he overdoing it? 

Prince Yuuri’s eyes seemed to dart everywhere as they took their seats around the table, pausing on Chris when he spoke again. “I know you’re both here to discuss peace, but I think we can spare some time to simply enjoy the food and good company. It’s much more pleasant that way, don’t you think?” There was something in his tone that Victor couldn’t quite place, but the suggestion was more than agreeable, and he felt himself relax a fraction. 

“Don’t want to ruin your appetite, Chris?” Victor teased. Chris only chuckled, and Victor turned to Prince Yuuri. “As long as Prince Yuuri also agrees.” 

“Y-yes, of course.” That stutter again. Victor studied him, trying to figure him out, what might be the best way to approach him to gain his respect and cooperation. Despite his blushing and restless eyes, he still held the bearing of a prince, his back straight and his manners impeccable as he filled his plate with an assortment of the breakfast spread. 

There was an elegance to him, too, in the way he moved, and the clothing he wore. He was all navy and indigo, a tunic and pants, and layered over that some kind of loosely draped jacket of fine brocade, embroidered with white-threaded cranes. It suited him, Victor thought, though of course a prince would wear clothing that suited him. It shouldn’t have been remarkable, but somehow it was. 

Victor wondered, wistfully, what his Eros might be like, once he found him. Stripped of his mask and as human as Victor. He would command grace, even better than Prince Yuuri, who kept glancing fretfully at his lord companion. 

Victor turned his attention to filling his own plate instead, but let his gaze wander back to Prince Yuuri. “I hope your journey here was pleasant,” Victor murmured. “When did you arrive?” 

Prince Yuuri’s gaze settled, finally, steady on Victor for a long moment, as if it was a question that required some consideration before answering. “Yesterday afternoon.” 

“Really?” Victor’s eyebrows shot up, and he turned to fix an accusing glare on Chris, who merely lifted his hand dismissively. Victor rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Prince Yuuri. “Then were you able to attend the masquerade last night? Chris has impeccable taste for these things, and I had such a lovely time—” 

Prince Yuuri cut him off. “I was there, yes.” 

Victor blinked, confused by the edge in his voice. “Did you…not enjoy yourself?” 

Yuuri’s eyes dropped to his plate, a hand toying with something on his jacket. 

Chris’ voice rumbled into the sudden silence, his smile audible in his words. “Come now, Yuuri. From what I saw, you were enjoying yourself quite well.” Victor tried to remember if there had been anyone else remarkable the night before, but his memory was only a bright, glittery blur with Eros at its center. 

Prince Yuuri’s eyes flicked between Chris and Victor. “I…yes, it was fun.” His opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it again, as if thinking better of it. His hand still lingered on his jacket, the only flaw in his otherwise perfect manners, and Victor’s eyes dropped—and caught. 

Victor had been distracted, caught up in his own thoughts, and that was the only excuse he had for missing the cluster of flowers pinned to the front of Prince Yuuri’s jacket. 

Little pink rosettes, and nestled in among them, a violet orchid, like the one tucked close to Victor’s heart, and Victor froze, his eyes flicking back up to Prince Yuuri’s face. He was looking at Victor expectantly, because of course the conversation would pass back to Victor, but Victor’s world had just turned upside-down, because now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t unsee it. Prince Yuuri _was_ his Eros, he was sure of it, sure those were the same warm brown eyes that had sparkled for him so merrily the night before, the same soft-looking lips. The same faint flush dusting his cheeks. 

Victor recovered, albeit with a little prompting from Chris’ elbow, and he took a delicate sip from his goblet to cover the awkward silence that had fallen. “Masquerades are my favorite.” Victor spared another dark look at Chris, unsure if he should feel betrayed or grateful for his silence. For this secret, and the mischievous smile he was given in return. “Did you know? They’re magic. Last night I danced with a god, and today he descends to dine among mortals.” 

“No one is themselves at masquerades,” Yuuri murmured, his tone a little wistful, and that just wouldn’t do. 

“I like to think I am more myself than ever when I’m behind a mask of anonymity.” Victor gave him a soft, charming smile, and it was genuine, like Victor rarely was anymore. 

“Ah.” Prince Yuuri was staring at Victor with another unreadable look, and Victor felt a flutter of disappointment, because it wasn’t the kind of response he’d expected. Had he done something wrong? He’d been so sure, last night, that Eros— _Yuuri_ —was as enthralled with Victor as Victor was with him, so surely he would be as happy as Victor to meet again. 

Right? 

Lord Chalunont spoke for the first time, all smiles and cheerful tone. “I’m sure the alcohol helps, too!” 

Yuuri whipped around to face him, face red and indignant. “Phichit!” 

Lord Chalunont was grinning now. “What? It’s true!” To Yuuri’s other side, Chris was laughing. 

“You’re not wrong,” Chris said. “Ah, I was right, you all make excellent company.” 

Victor found himself nodding. “It’s a shame that it has to be under such dire circumstances.” It was a shame Victor had never met Yuuri before; he was certain if he’d had the chance to meet Yuuri before, he would’ve been just as smitten as now, and there would be no excuse for King Yakov to target Glacius if they were married. 

(Perhaps it was Victor’s identity that troubled Yuuri, and the conflict between their countries. Did Yuuri hate him, now that he knew who Victor was? But they’d already both agreed to work towards peace…) 

Chris waved him off. “Let’s not dwell on such things. I have faith you two will work out the differences between your countries. It is just a matter of the details, yes?” He looked between Victor and Yuuri, smiling. “Let us worry about them later. Please, enjoy the food.” 

And if nothing else, Victor trusted Chris’ methods, perhaps begrudgingly, so he focused on eating. The rest of the meal had a strange, awkward tension that he couldn’t quite shake. Worse, as much as he tried, he could barely coax a smile from Yuuri, let alone the same passion that they’d teased each other with the night before. 

But he was still lovely, Victor thought, even subdued like this, still graceful as if there was music in every movement, and it made Victor want to know him more than ever. 

If Yuuri even was interested in him. By the time the dishes were being cleared away, Victor was less than sure about that. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such trouble getting a read on a person. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to pursue someone, and that…well. He was certainly willing to do that. 

Victor waited until Yuuri and Phichit took their leave before he turned to Chris with a hiss. “ _Why didn_ _’t you tell me who he was?_ ” 

Chris gave him a maddening smile. “But Victor, where’s the fun in that?” 

“Fun for who?” he grumbled. “He probably hates me now. Did you see him? He could barely even look at me.” Victor sprawled in his chair dramatically. “He’s beautiful and perfect and he hates me.” 

“He didn’t hate you last night. In fact, he seemed quite taken with you; I don’t think I’ve ever seen Yuuri like that.” 

Victor peered at Chris through slitted eyes. “Because he was drunk, Lord Chalunont practically said so.” 

Chris scoffed. “That is _not_ what Lord Chalunont was implying. I told you I would help you find your Eros, didn’t I? I did. But you didn’t do your part, Victor. You didn’t declare your love for him in broad daylight.” 

Victor straightened. “I did!”

Chris leaned over and patted Victor’s cheek. “Not plainly, my friend. Try again.” Victor let out a groan, and dropped his head back against the chair back. “You want to marry him? Court him.” 

Victor mulled over Chris’ words for the rest of the afternoon. It wasn’t such a bad idea, really, but he wasn’t entirely convinced that Yuuri would be receptive. Still, he had to try. 

Except, the next time Victor and Yuuri came together, it was in Chris’ library, maps and documents spread between them. It was only business between them, both of them focused on forging peace between their countries, and it would be a long process, Victor realized, before they could come to an agreement that both kings would be satisfied by. 

He felt a little guilty, after the first day, for being glad that it meant he could spend more time with Yuuri, because King Yakov would certainly call him back to Poskana once negotiations here were settled, and Victor could only stay away for so long. 

Their dinner passed much like breakfast, though it was held in the dining hall this time, with a full contingent of Chris’ court. Which of course meant it was loud and lively, and anyway Yuuri seemed too preoccupied with whatever the members of his entourage were whispering into his ear for him to give Victor any more attention than what was polite. 

Chris met Victor’s mournful looks without pity, and Victor grumbled under his breath about his failures as a host. 

A little after dinner, Victor returned to the library, to review their progress, and he was startled to find Yuuri already there, doing the same. His heart fluttered hopefully, but Victor ignored it. 

“I just thought to look over,” Victor finished his sentence by gesturing at his pile of documents. 

“Me, too.” Yuuri’s voice was soft, softer than it had been all day, and there was a hint of exhaustion in there, the first inflection Victor had heard that wasn’t business-like or flustered. He’d had less time to rest since arriving, Victor realized, and even with the morning’s lie-in, it had still been a long day. Their work had taken its toll on Victor, too, but surely it was worse for Yuuri. 

Victor pursed his lips. Yuuri turned him around until he didn’t know what to say, not like the effortless way he captivated everyone else. He liked that about him, but he wanted to win Yuuri over, and he didn’t know how. 

“I’m glad you’re as invested in the peace between our countries as I am,” Victor said, finally. If nothing else, he knew where they stood on this. 

Yuuri gave him a small smile, and it made Victor’s heart trip. “King Celestino is prepared for war, but I don’t think it’s best for either of our countries.” 

“No, I don’t think so, either.” Victor sighed. “Of course, I am not the king, so I can only do as my father wishes.” 

Yuuri’s smile widened a fraction. “Yes, well, that’s a prince’s lot, isn’t it? You know, I wasn’t even born a prince. I wasn’t chosen to inherit the throne until I was three.” Victor nodded. He knew that much, but it felt significant, somehow, to hear it from Yuuri himself. “Sometimes I think about what it might’ve been like…” Yuuri shook his head and looked down at the large map of their countries, spreading a hand over it. 

“It was a good choice,” Victor murmured. “I think it suits you, to lead someday. Look at what we’re doing here. Chris is right, it’s only a matter of details. We’ll work them out together.” 

Yuuri lifted his head and looked as if he was about to say something else, but instead Lord Chalunont’s voice cut through the room. “Prince Yuuri!” Lord Chalunont joined Yuuri where he was standing across from Victor, and gave a small bow. “Excuse me, Your Highnesses.” He turned to Yuuri. “It’s late.” 

They both looked at Victor, who nodded. “He’s right. You should rest. We won’t make any progress at this hour. Good night, Prince Yuuri. Lord Chalunont.” 

Yuuri gave him one of those inscrutable looks and nodded. “Good night, Prince Victor.” 

Victor was so preoccupied watching Yuuri make his way to the door, that he didn’t notice that Lord Chalunont had stayed, so when the man spoke, it startled Victor. 

“Would you really marry Yuuri?” 

The question caught Victor even more off-guard than the lack of proper address, and he stared. “Of course I would. If he wanted to.” 

Lord Chalunont crossed his arms. “He thought you only said it because you were drunk. He thought you were teasing him.” 

Victor blinked. Well. That would make sense. Actually, it explained everything since the masquerade. “I was deadly serious.” Victor’s mind raced; he’d probably ruined it, if Yuuri thought he was only teasing, but he wanted to, he really did. “He’s the most remarkable person I’ve ever met.” 

Lord Chalunont cocked his head. “He likes you, you know.” Victor’s pulse quickened. “But if you want to marry him, you should court him properly.” Lord Chalunont looked Victor up and down, and it was incredibly rude, but Victor couldn’t find it in himself to care. “Good night, Prince Victor.” He bowed and then Victor was left alone in the library. 

Victor stared down at the map. He would, starting tomorrow. 

He found his way back to his room without incident, ready to turn in for the night, when he had an idea. 

The orchid had wilted considerably after spending a day in Victor’s pocket, but there was still enough of it left that a touch and a little bit of will filled the petals out until it looked freshly cut. And then Victor concentrated, because he didn’t often use this kind of magic—it was better not to rely on it, Lilia always said, but this was a special occasion—and he felt the tingle of magic when he brushed his lips against the petals. And, as a finishing touch, he pulled one of the white feathers from the mask still sitting on his desk, and tied it with the orchid. 

He turned and showed it to Makkachin, lips pursed. “A courting gift. What do you think, Makkachin?” Makkachin’s tail swished against the floor in approval. “Well, I hope Yuuri likes it.” Victor set it on the desk, next to his mask, fingers lingering on it, before he climbed into bed. 

.o. 

Victor woke the next morning with renewed determination. He’d found the man who’d embodied Eros; now he had to prove that he was worthy, had to chase the fire he’d found at the masquerade. 

A servant delivered a card from Yuuri while he was dressing for the day, and Victor wasn’t entirely sure if he was disappointed or happy that it was simply a message to suggest they take a small breakfast in the library, over their maps and documents, in order to get an early start. On the one hand, it was straight to business, but on the other, it meant more time with Yuuri, and that wasn’t a bad thing by any means. 

He never wanted to say no to Yuuri, and that made his decision for him. 

Yuuri was frowning over a piece of parchment when Victor entered the library, but he looked up at the sound of the door, and nodded. “Prince Victor, good morning.” 

Victor stood across from him and smiled. “Please, call me Victor. We are equals.” Silently, he added, _we are only men._ It was all he wanted to be, with Yuuri, without the expectations and responsibilities of leadership. 

(Though, Victor supposed, without all of that, they might never have met, and that was unthinkable.) 

Yuuri studied Victor for a moment. “I suppose we are. Victor, then.” His eyes flicked down to the table, and then back up to Victor, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and _god he was adorable_. “Yuuri. You can call me Yuuri.” 

It felt like a small victory, and Victor beamed happily. “Good morning, Yuuri.” He glanced at the fruits and pastries laid out among their maps, the decanter of wine. “This isn’t such a bad idea, though you know King Christophe would complain that the smell of parchment ruins his appetite.” 

The comment earned him a wide smile from Yuuri, and Victor’s stomach fluttered with something that had nothing to do with hunger. “Then he doesn’t have to eat.” 

Victor chuckled, giddy. This Yuuri was more relaxed than yesterday, and it gave him hope, after all. “Well, he _is_ our host, perhaps we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.” 

“You make a good point.” Yuuri was still smiling, and it wasn’t quite the giddy grin of Eros, but it was still attracting Victor like gravity, and he let himself be pulled until he was standing in front of Yuuri, whose expression melted into one of confusion. “Victor?” 

“Yuuri, I wanted to give you something.” Victor produced the bundle of the orchid and feather from his pocket, still pristine as he offered it to Yuuri. “A courting gift.” 

He watched as Yuuri blinked rapidly, looking from the orchid to Victor and then back again, his cheeks growing pink. “I, uhm, ah.” All of his earlier eloquence was gone, replaced by this stuttering, blushing thing, and Victor was terrified for a long moment that he had made a misstep. 

But then Yuuri was carefully lifting the orchid out of Victor’s hands, studying it with his lip caught between his teeth. “A-a courting gift?” 

Victor’s voice pitched low and intimate. “Yes, Yuuri. I want to court you, if you’ll allow me.” 

Yuuri traced a finger over the white feather, and looked up at Victor through his eyelashes, cheeks still pink, and it was like seeing a glimpse of Eros again. A tease. Yuuri licked his lips and then finally, finally said, “Alright.” 

“Yuuri!” Joy bubbled up in Victor’s chest until his cheeks hurt from how widely he was smiling, and he had to double check that his feet were still on the ground, because he swore he was floating. (He was, his feet not quite touching the rug beneath him, but Yuuri hadn’t noticed, and he drifted down before Yuuri saw.) Victor clasped one of Yuuri’s hands in his and beamed down at him. He hadn’t really thought much beyond offering a gift, but it didn’t take much thought to blurt, “Come dance with me. Tonight,” he amended, “after dinner.” 

Pink still dusted Yuuri’s cheeks as he nodded, a tentative smile over his lips. “After dinner, then.” He glanced back down at the orchid still in his other hand. 

“It won’t wilt,” Victor said, releasing Yuuri’s hand to touch one of the violet petals. “A little charm my mother taught me. Should I pin it to your jacket?” Victor caught a fold of the fabric—it was the same style as yesterday, though the brocade was black with violet, today—and held it between his fingers, waiting. 

Yuuri held the orchid up for Victor to take back. “A-alright.” Victor had to step further into his space to pin it in place, and he felt Yuuri tense up, heard the quickening of his breath, and his lips were _so close._ So tempting. 

But Victor intended to stick to the plan of courting Yuuri properly, to win him over until he was as much Victor’s as Victor was already his, so he didn’t close the distance between their lips. Still, he couldn’t quite keep himself from brushing his thumb over Yuuri’s bottom lip, and it was just as soft as he’d expected, and Yuuri’s eyes were wide as he stared at Victor. 

Breath seemed to return to Yuuri all at once, and he stepped back from Victor, still flushed, all the grace that he’d contained as Eros _just there_ , and as much as Victor didn’t want to, he let Yuuri slip away. He would meet Yuuri halfway, when Yuuri was ready, and maybe Victor still wasn’t entirely sure that it would even happen, but that was what made it so _exciting_. 

“We should—” Yuuri paused to clear his throat. “We should start working on the negotiations. Yesterday you said King Yakov had an issue with the trade route along here?” Yuuri tapped a finger on the map, over the region in question, and Victor admired how quickly he had shifted into politics. 

He didn’t miss the way Yuuri’s eyes strayed back to him, and it sent a thrill through him. 

Chris joined them, later, after breakfast had been eaten and the dishes cleared, and Victor was grateful for his silence even as he sent Victor several pointed looks. They’d made a lot of headway by late afternoon, barely pausing for lunch, and Victor thought that King Yakov would be satisfied with the results so far. Maybe even enough to call Yuri back from the border as they worked out some of the finer details. He wanted to tell Yuuri as much, but Victor knew better than to do so before conferring with his father. 

They stopped just before dinner, at Chris’ insistence. Victor was reluctant to leave Yuuri’s company, but he had dinner with him to look forward to, and after that, dancing, rather than the tedious work over their maps, and that was enough to convince him to return to his room to freshen up. 

King Yakov’s earlier letter was still on the table, and Victor picked it up to read it again; it still made his mouth tighten in ire, but now he knew the man he wanted to marry was Prince Yuuri—surely his father would consider that a suitable match. Even if he disliked King Celestino. 

Victor quickly scrawled a report of his progress in the negotiations, emphasizing his confidence that he and Yuuri would be able to come to an agreement that would please both kings. 

_In addition, I have begun to court Crown Prince Yuuri. Father, surely he is a suitable match. Should our negotiations fail, perhaps we could put aside our differences and join our countries with marriage, instead._

He did not add that he intended to court Yuuri for marriage whether his father agreed or not. King Yakov knew him well enough that it didn’t need to be said. He sent the message with a hawk, before hurrying to the dining hall. 

Dinner went much as the night before, except this time Victor caught Yuuri’s eyes on him more than once, from Chris’ other side, and he was buzzing in anticipation to dance with Yuuri afterward. He spoke in Chris’ ear, between courses, and Chris grinned and signaled for a servant to take care of Victor’s request. 

Yuuri started when Victor caught his hand before he could leave the dining hall, but he didn’t resist when Victor tugged him in a different direction. “Where are we going?” 

“To dance!” Victor smiled back at him, until Yuuri did resist, stopping so that Victor had to either let go of his hand or stop, too, and Victor’s face fell when Yuuri drew his hand away on his own. 

Yuuri’s brow was furrowed. “Victor, I’m not dressed for dancing.” 

Victor pursed his lips. “Nonsense. I want to dance with you, just like this.” 

Yuuri looked uncertain, but he took a step forward. “I…” He stopped again, taking in the wide hall where they’d paused, his gaze settling on the large set of doors at the end of it. “Isn’t that the ballroom? We really can’t dance dressed like this, it’s not—it’s not appropriate.” 

“Yuuri,” Victor pleaded. They’d already gone past appropriate at the masquerade, and Victor’s mask, at least, had done nothing to hide his identity. What difference would it make at this point? Still, he’d wanted this all to himself, and now he was grateful for the privacy. “It’s fine, it’s just you and me.” 

Yuuri gave him a doubtful look, but he stepped forward again. “Okay.” Yuuri took Victor’s hand when he offered it again, and when Victor pushed open the door to the ballroom, it was as empty as he’d promised, the room dark except for a few colorful lamps standing around the center of the room, so that the edges disappeared in shadow. It made it intimate, a large space made small, and Victor watched Yuuri’s eyes wander, taking it in, glancing toward the unobtrusive corner where a small group of musicians were already playing. 

He still seemed hesitant, as Victor led him to the center, his steps almost mechanical when he followed Victor’s lead into the dance. 

It was stiff and formal, Victor realized, barely an shadow of their movements at the masquerade, and Victor tried not to frown. In truth, he barely knew Yuuri, except for a bare handful of cordial letters and their political negotiating. And of course a single night of dancing—very little about the man, himself, he realized. But— 

But, what little he had seen was enough for Victor to admire and respect, enough for him to want to know more. Enough to want to draw him into a conversation and hopefully put him at ease. 

“You know,” Victor murmured, “I was glad when you accepted the invitation to come here.” Victor glanced around the ballroom and amended, “Not to dance, I mean—though I’m pleased about this, too—but to find some common ground between our countries. It’s been nothing but a pleasant experience, despite the situation being less so.” 

Yuuri’s mouth curled up a bit, letting Victor turn him into a twirl. “Chris makes everything a pleasant experience.” 

Victor chuckled. “You’re not wrong. But I enjoy listening to your suggestions, watching you pore over the maps and draw new lines. I admire your dedication to your country.” 

Their dance drew them a few steps apart, and some of the tension that had been singing through Yuuri had eased. “I should think any prince would be so dedicated to his country. And what about you? Your brother?” 

“Yura? He thinks war is a service to his country. He’s not wrong. Misguided, I think.” Victor shrugged. A moment passed and their steps brought them close again. “War is the easy solution, but that doesn’t mean it’s the right one.” 

“No,” Yuuri agreed, fitting a palm against Victor’s. 

Victor continued. “I love my country, so I suppose I appreciate someone who shares the same sentiment. But truly, Yuuri, you make excellent company.” 

Yuuri’s face pinked. “It’s good manners to be polite.” 

Victor’s voice dropped low, intimate. “Was it good manners that had Eros dancing with me at the masquerade?” 

Yuuri danced away, licking his lips. “That was—” It was there, Victor could see a hint of it in the flush of Yuuri’s cheeks, in the graceful steps that put distance between them, taking the lead from Victor without losing the rhythm of the dance. Victor followed, because he couldn’t _not,_ because he was gravitating towards the melody that was Yuuri in motion, and it made him breathless. “That was _Eros_.” 

Yuuri’s tone said, _it wasn_ _’t me_ , but Victor didn’t believe that. They’d already moved into a dance that went outside the prescribed steps of the music, and when Victor spoke, his voice came out low, suggestive. “Then show me Eros, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri’s brow furrowed, his step faltering enough for Victor to draw close again. A beat later, his expression shifted, a change that seemed to suffuse through his whole being, from the tilt of his head and his lowered lashes, to the teasing outstretched hand, to the commanding lilt of his voice. “Then look only at me, Victor.” 

Victor swallowed, his mouth dry, and nodded. “Of course.” It was a command he was more than willing to follow, and maybe the room was empty of anyone else, but it wouldn’t have made a difference even if it wasn’t. Yuuri moved with a fluid grace that beckoned Victor’s attention, called on him to give chase as much as he had during the masquerade. And yet it was different, without the masks concealing their identities, without the veneer of formalities between them. 

It was intimate, because of that, more than the emptiness of the room, and Victor reveled in it. 

He lost track of the time as they turned and whirled and laughed, feet barely touching the floor, the world defined by the brief touches Yuuri allowed him. A curl of fingers against his own. A hand against his back—so quick and light that Victor almost believed he’d imagined it. The music was barely a thought, the rhythm they followed their own, fast and exhilarating until Yuuri tempered it to something slower. 

And slow was exhilarating in its own way, because Victor could close the distance between them, drawn in, in, gravity between them, and Yuuri’s hand coming to rest on his arm, his eyes bright and shining and so close— 

Yuuri’s lips on his came as a surprise, despite their proximity, soft and just as fleeting as everything else, except this time when Victor pursued him, Yuuri was there to meet him in another kiss. There was no hurry to it, and yet Victor’s heart was hammering, desperate for more, ready to lead Yuuri to his room and see all of him as flushed as his cheeks. 

But Yuuri was already dancing away again, a hand over his mouth, the confidence of Eros dissolving as quickly as it had come. “G-good night, Victor.” He lowered his hand enough for Victor to see his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and _Victor wanted_ , and it was amazing the things Yuuri was doing to him, really. “Thank you for the dance.”  There was an unsteady smile, and Victor barely managed a husky _Good night_ in response before Yuuri had disappeared through the big doors. 

Victor let out a shaky breath, running his hands back through his hair—it was disheveled, now, and his fingers caught in tangles—gathering himself.  Yuuri had him all off-balance, and Victor _loved it_.


	6. Part Four - Yuri

Yuri had penned another letter to his father after coming down from the battlements, Otabek an unobtrusive presence trailing in his wake, pausing every so often to study their surroundings with a quiet curiosity. Yuri had been transparent in the note, solidly placing the blame for his many delays on an agent of his mother’s (and King Yakov would believe it as readily as Yuri had), and assured that his men and women were still ready to move at his word—except that the fae had hidden away King Yakov’s sealed declaration. 

Otabek read it over his shoulder, something like a smile pulling at his lips and softening his features, and Yuri couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed, for once. If anything, there was a certain satisfaction in seeing such an expression on Otabek’s face, the feeling fluttering in his chest as he signed the letter. 

Yuri looked at Otabek from the corner of his eye, and like that, he could see the way Otabek’s form shimmered; it was obvious, now that he’d already confirmed it, but then, he’d only seen Otabek in shadows or darkness before today, his dark clothes allowing him to blend into his surroundings. Yuri turned, allowing his gaze to linger and study, to notice the sheen of inky feathers draped around his shoulders. The rest of his attire was simple but fine, black on black, with the faint shine of a pattern picked out in thread on his tunic. There was probably magic woven into his clothes, Yuri thought, or maybe the fabric itself was a product of Otabek’s power. It was hard to tell with fae. 

Otabek rolled his shoulders, pulling Yuri from his reverie, and it reminded him of a bird settling its wings. A quiet restlessness, and it prompted Yuri to tilt his head and murmur, “If you accompany me for a ride, I’ll provide you with your own horse, this time.” 

The suggestion earned Yuri a snort and a soft, “Alright.” Otabek tilted his head. “Just don’t get stabbed, this time.” 

Yuri glanced down at his injured leg, which seemed to take that as its cue to give a slight throb of pain. “That was hardly a scratch.” 

Otabek raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Sure.” 

It was easy, to trade banter with Otabek as they made their way out to the stables, and when it did trail off into silence, it was a comfortable one. _Friend._ Yuri rolled the word around in his head again, and this time it started to take on some meaning, the natural companionship of Otabek’s presence, free of pretense or obligation. It was…nice. 

The day seemed to pass more quickly than the one before, and there was no question as to why—Yuri’s mood had settled considerably, so that impatience and irritation didn’t stretch the day into longer hours—and by the time he and Otabek dismounted in front of the stables again, there was already a hawk settling down on a fence post. It turned its head to watch them, and Yuri got the distinct feeling that it was _studying_ them, the bird’s scrutiny one he was unused to. Yuri accepted the letter it carried and tried not to let it unnerve him. 

Yuri absently patted his horse’s flank as he opened the parchment one-handed, but he stilled as he read, and then reread King Yakov’s words. The parchment crinkled as Yuri’s grip on it tightened. His gaze swung to Otabek, but of course _he_ had had nothing to do with it, except that he’d been right. 

“He told me to stand down,” Yuri spat. “Victor—Victor convinced him. Them. All that _pretentious, bullshit_ —why does he—” Yuri cut himself off, mouth pressing into a thin line. This was a complaint he’d held inside for too long to give full voice to. But his father’s words drew his eyes again, and it knocked the breath out of him, defeat heavy on his shoulders. “Now what do I do?” It sounded small, even to him, and as he looked at Otabek, he didn’t expect an answer that could fill the sudden void in his gut.

If anything, looking at Otabek made it worse, because he’d fulfilled his duty to Queen Lilia. There was no reason for him to stay, now, and the word _friend_ was still a new enough thing that Yuri couldn’t quite trust it, not in the face of this. 

He felt alone, Yuri realized distantly. Alone and lost, his singular driving force stolen from him, his only friendship done before it had even began. 

Otabek’s hand on his arm pulled Yuri back to the present, his low voice taking the shape of Yuri’s name, and Yuri wondered how long Otabek had been trying to get his attention. He dragged in a breath and chanced a glance at Otabek’s face, got caught in dark eyes. “There will be other battles to fight, Yura.” Yuri felt his eyes widen at the diminutive of his name, but Otabek continued as if it was nothing. “There will be battles that serve a purpose other than simple warmongering. You have the makings of a hero, and you don’t need a war to become one.” 

There was logic in his words, and perhaps that, more than anything, helped to ground Yuri, if not reassure him. “Of course.” He gave Otabek a tight smile. “And now that you’ve prevented this one, I expect you’ll return to your own realm.” 

Otabek blinked, drawing his hand from Yuri’s arm with a slight frown. “If that’s what you wish.” 

Yuri huffed. Of _course_ that wasn’t what he wanted. “No, I just—I thought—” He bit his lip, an idea forming in his mind. “I need a favor,” he blurted. If he owed Otabek a favor, then he would have to come back to collect the debt, no matter where he went. It was desperate and frivolous and not at all like Yuri, but the threat of loneliness was still clawing at his chest. 

Otabek studied him for a long moment, eyebrows drawn together. “Yura,” he said gently, “you are my friend. You should know: that is more valuable than any debt.”

Yuri stared back at Otabek, turning the words over in his head until they made sense, until they lightened some of the heaviness that had weighed down on his shoulders. “Oh.” He raised his chin a fraction, as if that could distract from the embarrassed warmth on his cheeks. 

Otabek nudged him, one of those small smiles on his face. “Let’s take care of the horses before their patience runs out.” 

To his own surprise, Yuri found himself smiling back. Otabek was right; there would be other chances to prove himself, and more importantly— 

He wasn’t alone anymore. 

.o. 

The next few days were spent at the keep, a precaution against the king of either country changing his mind. A letter from Victor announced his intent to marry Prince Yuuri of Glacius, and Yuri scowled at it. And then he scowled at Otabek’s unassuming murmur of _congratulations_ , but of course Otabek was unfazed, and in the end Yuri couldn’t help but be amused by the serious expression on his face. 

He half-expected a war to break out after all, over one of Victor’s frivolous affairs, but before he could figure out how he felt about _that_ , a sealed letter arrived from his father to legitimize the engagement. The letter included an order to return to the capital, and so Yuri and his company prepared to march home. 

They set out without the urgency that had spurred them towards the border, and without encountering the myriad delays. And while Yuri was still sour about the turn of events, he found it difficult to be moody with Otabek riding at his side. Even Mila’s pointed looks couldn’t elicit more than a sharp glare in response. (No one else questioned Otabek’s presence, but then, no one else was willing to question their prince in anything.) 

Sometimes Otabek would disappear, gone between one moment and the next, his horse still trotting obediently next to Yuri’s despite its missing rider, and instead, Yuri would see a raven circling above. 

They were a day’s march out from the capital, Yuri’s men and women setting up camp for the night, when the raven dropped into a steep dive that ended with Otabek landing on his feet in front of Yuri, brow furrowed. “Yura. I found something for you to fight.” Yuri’s gaze sharpened. “Get your horse and follow me.” 

Yuri hesitated, eyes flickering over the neat rows of tents being assembled. “Must not be much of a threat if I can fight it off alone.” 

Otabek’s mouth tightened, and he nudged Yuri toward where his horse was tethered. “No. It’s a threat that can’t be handled by them,” he swept a hand to indicate the camp. “They wouldn’t stand a chance.” 

Yuri pursed his lips, already moving to tighten the girth strap of his saddle. Otabek didn’t say things with the intent to flatter, so Yuri didn’t question his assessment, except to say, “Why?” 

“They’re human.” Yuri raised an eyebrow, but Otabek rolled his eyes—one of the most human gestures Yuri had ever seen him make—and said pointedly, “Queen Lilia is your mother.” Yuri huffed a small sigh before swinging up into his saddle, because it was true. That still made him half-human, but he wasn’t about to let such a small detail bother him. If Otabek thought it was something he could handle, then he would. 

Otabek waited long enough for Yuri to gather the reins before his form shimmered, enveloped in black—and then feathers. Yuri barely had time to register the change before the raven was propelling himself into the air, and Yuri had to urge his mount into a brisk trot to keep pace. Otabek flew low, stark against the warm colors of sunset, darting up every so often, and Yuri supposed it was to get his bearings as he led the way, taking them off the road and past the tree line. 

The sky was still light, turning towards twilight, when Otabek landed, shifting back and holding up a hand for Yuri to rein his horse in. “We should go the rest of the way by foot,” he murmured. At Yuri’s questioning look he said, “You’ll see.” Yuri nodded in agreement, dismounting to follow Otabek. 

Otabek moved in silence, and while it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, Yuri couldn’t help his gnawing curiosity. They’d been walking for several minutes without an explanation before he burst out, “So what is it?” 

Otabek glanced over his shoulder, frowning. “I’m not sure. But it’s not good. We’re almost there. I think.” 

Yuri pursed his lips. “You think?” 

“It looks different from down here.” Otabek shrugged. 

Yuri huffed a sigh. There was no heat behind it, but they were quickly losing light. He was about to say as much when an acrid smell burned in his nose, and as they crested a hill, Otabek halted and threw an arm in front of him. Yuri didn’t have to ask if this was it—the look they exchanged was enough, and Yuri followed Otabek’s gaze to the ground below them. 

At first glance, it looked like blight had ravaged the vegetation, but the visible ground was charred black, as if from fire, with dead animals littered about in various states of decay. Yuri crinkled his nose as much in distaste as from the choking smell of it. “It’s magical,” he guessed. Which would be why Otabek had said that Yuri’s company couldn’t handle it. Otabek only nodded. “Is it a creature or an enchantment?” 

“A creature, I think, but it could be both.” Yuri nodded and drew his sword; they crept forward cautiously, side by side, but Yuri paused, glancing at Otabek. 

“Don’t you have a weapon?” 

Otabek raised an eyebrow. “Yes?” He brought a hand up and flexed it until it was as black as his sleeves, fingers tipped with sharp talons that gleamed in the fading light, and Yuri’s eyes widened. He should’ve expected as much, but it was still a bit of a surprise—and, he realized, that was how Otabek had helped him in the forest before. It hardly mattered _how,_ though, and Yuri filed the information away, his focus on the task at hand. 

It became apparent, as they moved forward, that whatever was affecting the area got worse as they approached…whatever the source was, the dead plants tending more towards charred than wilted, though the telltale smell of smoke was absent. At least, Yuri was fairly certain that the astringent smell wasn’t smoke. 

There was movement several feet away from them, the rustle of dead leaves, and both he and Otabek froze. There had been nothing living since they’d passed into the affected area, and it was dark enough by now that it was difficult to make out much more than a shadow, but—Yuri was certain he’d seen something. “Can you see it?” he whispered. Otabek put a finger to his lips and nodded. After a moment of what seemed like hesitation, he turned the same finger toward Yuri, projecting the movement so that Yuri could shrug it off if he wanted—but he didn’t, he trusted Otabek by now—and touched it against Yuri’s temple. 

The touch was light, but Yuri recognized the heat of magic, and he blinked reflexively. When he opened his eyes, the evening shadows had sharpened, the world around him washed of color but clear. More importantly, he could _see it_. 

Yuri bit his lip in a conscious effort to keep quiet, because his first response was an unvoiced, vulgar exclamation. The creature didn’t seem to have noticed them, yet, its attention on a lifeless sparrow, jaw gaping for a handful of seconds before it was swallowing the bird down. It most closely resembled a snake, or perhaps a minuscule dragon, he thought. There was a ridge of spines on its head, and when it moved again, a flutter of sickly feathered wings at its back, balancing it upright, and Yuri racked his mind for a name to put to the creature. 

He leaned closer to Otabek, so that his lips were practically against his ear, and breathed, “Have you ever seen one of these before?” Otabek shook his head, and Yuri frowned. If it was indeed a magical creature, simple steel would probably be all but useless against it, and while Otabek was fae, Yuri wasn’t convinced that his talons would be much better. Yuri didn’t like the idea of going in blind, and was already tugging Otabek back by the arm to retreat and regroup. If they could figure out what it was— 

A twig snapped beneath his heel, and the thing swung its head to look at them. 

Its eyes were pits of black, sucking all the air from Yuri’s lungs, making it impossible to move, fear clawing at his stomach—and then its gaze swung to Otabek and Yuri gasped, trying to catch his breath. 

The thing advanced, hissing and spitting, leaving a wake of blackened earth, and whatever plan Yuri might’ve formulated evaporated when it became clear the thing was going to attack Otabek. And maybe it was small—a yard long, maybe a bit more—but its vicious gaze and everything dead all around them was enough to make it a threat. So Yuri lunged, hissing his own magic between his teeth, the sound harsher than the soft trills he used to call his friends, the intent clear in his mind: it had to die, whatever it was. 

The creature whipped around to face Yuri again, and _its eyes_ , Yuri realized—its eyes were paralyzing, the hiss of magic freezing on his tongue. 

But with its attention on Yuri, Otabek was moving again in a burst of black feathers, the advantage of speed and altitude and it was enough to drag the thing’s eyes away from Yuri again. It was fast, too fast for Yuri, but Otabek dove and ripped talons through scales and tattered wings, black blood welling from the wounds, until it was distracted enough that it didn’t see Yuri. Sparks danced along his blade when it cleaved flesh, and when Yuri pulled his sword away, the metal was corroded. 

But the thing was unmoving on the ground, the head separated from its body. 

Yuri coughed and stumbled, dropping his sword, his lungs burning, _burning_ , every breath fire, and then Otabek was there at his side, steadying him. “Yura?” 

Yuri shook his head, trying to clear it. He wasn’t sure if it was the harsh magic he’d channeled, or the acrid air that was searing his lungs—probably the latter. But the thing was dead and they could go back and Yuri would be fine once he’d seen the physician—probably. “I’m fine.” It came out as a rasp, and Yuri was reminded of his first encounter with Otabek—not so unlike this—and it made a weak smile tug at his lips. He frowned at his sword, useless now, and decided to leave it. 

Otabek snorted. “Of course you are.” He bent and retrieved the creature’s head, held between taloned fingers, and carefully wrapped it in shimmering cloth, before stowing it away and wrapping an arm around Yuri’s waist. “Come on, then.” 

Yuri wanted to protest Otabek’s supportive grip, but it was taking all of his concentration to drag in breath, so that there was none left to talk. They trudged back up the hill in silence, and when they reached the top, the air felt a little clearer, breath coming a little easier. Otabek gave him a considering look, and Yuri waved a dismissive hand. “The air,” he explained. “I think it did something to the air.” He took a deep breath, and it didn’t hurt quite so much. 

Otabek raised an eyebrow. “The air, the plant life, your sword.” 

“Well, it’s dead now,” Yuri said dryly. “Whatever it was.” 

Otabek frowned. “Yes, but where did it come from?” 

They both were silent again, considering the question as Otabek picked a path back toward Yuri’s horse. “It’s definitely magical,” Yuri said slowly, “but are you saying it was _put_ there?” Otabek hummed an affirmative, and it made sense, Yuri supposed. Neither he nor Otabek had ever seen anything like it before, and it certainly wasn’t native to the area—not so close to the capital. 

Yuri mulled it over the rest of the way back to camp. 

He didn’t have an answer by the time they returned. Identifying the creature was something that would have to wait until he had the resources of the capital, and the physician only frowned and declared it a minor poison of some kind, one that was already working its way out of his system through the cold sweat beading his forehead and making his shirt cling to his skin. Yuri scowled at her and stalked out, back to his tent, and when he laid down to sleep, he found comfort in the presence of the raven perched just outside. 

.o. 

Returning to the capital was nothing like Yuri had envisioned it when he had set out. There was no hero’s welcome, no parade under a shower of flower petals to celebrate a successful campaign. There was only the curious gazes of the citizens, happy to see their prince but not ecstatic with his victory, because there had been none. It made something itch beneath Yuri’s skin, and he didn’t bother to hide his frown. 

Rather than reporting to King Yakov immediately, Yuri diverted, tugging Otabek with him to the library, tossing his riding jacket haphazardly on a chair before pulling several texts from a shelf. He began with Queen Lilia’s bestiary, pushing another book towards Otabek for him to page through. The bestiary had drawings next to the descriptions of each creature, and Yuri was surprised to find something that resembled the one they’d encountered barely halfway through the pages. 

“Otabek.” Otabek looked up, and Yuri angled the book towards him. “This thing?” Otabek’s eyes scrolled down the page, and he nodded, unwrapping the thing’s head to compare it to the drawing. It wasn’t a perfect likeness, but it was near enough, and Yuri read, “Basilisk.” His eyes widened as he read the rest of the entry. “Lethal venom; killing gaze.” He exchanged a look with Otabek. “But we’re still alive.” 

Otabek pursed his lips. “Its eyes did paralyze us.” He tapped his finger over a passage. “And here, it says it scorches the very ground with its presence.” 

Yuri considered this for a moment, and then said slowly, “Lethal to _humans_.” Otabek accepted the explanation with a nod. Yuri scanned the entry again, and found himself wondering again, _what_ put _it there?_ Because, according to the entry, basilisks were _made_. There was nothing natural about them, and their very existence was purposeful. 

Only a malicious person would even create one, and they had let it loose barely a day’s ride from the capital, _the heart of Yuri_ _’s country_. It rankled. 

Yuri hefted the book into his arms and reached for the basilisk head—but Otabek was already carefully wrapping it in the cloth, not touching it directly, and, yeah, Yuri realized he should’ve considered the consequences of touching such a venomous creature. Yuri shrugged it off and set off to find his father; Otabek fell into step next to him without prompting. 

It was something Yuri was growing used to, to the point that he almost couldn’t imagine not having Otabek at his side, when barely a week ago, he’d only ever expected a military loyalty from anyone. This was different. Better. 

Yuri found King Yakov in his office, papers strewn across the desk and his brow furrowed even through the lines that already creased it. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, and his frown deepened. “Even a prince should knock on the door of a king,” he grumbled, but his tone held a hint of fondness. 

Yuri huffed a sigh in response and shook his head. “Father—look.” He dropped the book open on the desk, over top of the rest of the paper. Otabek glanced at Yuri before bowing his head in deference to King Yakov, and carefully uncovering the basilisk head for him to see—not, like Yuri, impudently dropping it on the desk. Yuri gestured at the book, and then at the thing cupped in Otabek’s hands. “A basilisk. We found it not a day’s march from the capital.” 

King Yakov glanced between Yuri and Otabek, and then the items they had brought, fingers tapping on the desk. After a moment, he sighed heavily, his shoulders drooping as if from some great weight. “There are more. Not all basilisks, but—” he moved his fingers to tap the bestiary. “Just after I sent the order for you to return, the letters started coming. Magical beasts attacking villages, farms…our citizens are in danger. People are dying.” 

Yuri’s mouth tightened. “I will handle it.” 

King Yakov gave him a long, searching look, and then nodded. “I know you will.” It was praise, coming from him, and Yuri felt a small swell of pride. This was a battle he could fight, one that would gain him a kind of recognition that Victor would never have, mired in the politics of the country as he was. 

King Yakov turned his attention to Otabek then. “And who are you?” The question was blunt, but not unkind. 

“Otabek, Your Majesty.” He bent into a low bow, as elegant as any Yuri had ever see, and that made Yuri smirk a little. Even more when he realized that Otabek had never bothered bowing before _him_. 

“My friend,” Yuri added. 

That earned him a raised eyebrow from his father, and the ghost of a smile. “A fae is good friend to have at your side.” Yuri wasn’t sure how he could tell, but then, Queen Lilia had been at his side for decades before her recent disappearance. King Yakov’s expression wilted a little, perhaps thinking the same thing, and he added, “For as long as they choose to stay there, anyway.” His gaze sharpened. “Now get this book off my desk! I have work to do.” He pushed the book to one side and thrust a handful of papers on top of the open pages. “There, those are all for you to _handle_.” He waved a dismissive hand, muttering something else under his breath until Yuri gathered up the book and the stack of papers on top and took his leave, Otabek shadowing him. 

They were letters, Yuri realized, once he’d spread the parchments across his own desk, the bestiary to one side. The ones his father had mentioned, with tales of vicious creatures, and Yuri was already unrolling a map to pinpoint the source of each one and plot an efficient path. “Basilisk, but what else do we have?” Yuri shuffled through the parchments, glancing over at Otabek. “We should leave as soon as possible, but it would help to know what we’re up against.” 

“We’ll figure it out.” Otabek pulled the letters from Yuri’s hands, and in his surprise, Yuri only gaped, sputtering. “Yura. You’ve been on the road for nearly a week. At least rest for the evening.” 

“I don’t have _time_ to rest, _Beka_.”  The nickname came out with less bite than Yuri intended, but then, he _was_ tired, despite his protest.  Still, he made to grab for the letters, only for them to disappear completely.  Yuri’s eyes darkened in irritation, but Otabek met his glare impassively.  “Otabek.” 

“Yuri.  Tomorrow you march out to your battle.  Rest up.”  His lips tilted in a teasing smile.  “You can push yourself to exhaustion all you want later.” 

Yuri’s eyes narrowed, and he deadpanned, “Really.” 

“No,” Otabek admitted.  “You’ll need your strength to fight.” 

Yuri relented with a huff, running a hand through his hair.  “There’s more to this than just some rampant beasts, isn’t there.” 

“Probably.” 

Yuri gave a tight smile.  “Good.”  It was a challenge, and he was more than ready to take it on, whatever it was.  He was ready to shine, brighter than Victor, ready to be more than just the second prince. 

Otabek studied him, as if hearing Yuri’s thoughts, and something softened in his expression.  “You’ll be great, Yura.”  There was a touch against his cheek, and Yuri realized it was Otabek’s knuckles, gentle on his face for a bare moment before he was stepping back, eyes dropping to the floor, and Yuri wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, except that it made warmth spread through his chest, his heart hammering. 

His face was burning, and Yuri didn’t quite know how to handle it, except to hide it with anger, so he grumbled, “Of course I will.”  It earned him another one of Otabek’s smiles, which should’ve been a contradiction, but Yuri found himself returning it with a tentative smile of his own.


	7. Part Four - Victor

King Yakov had sent a response to Victor’s latest letter by the next morning. Makkachin cocked his head as Victor shook the parchment in his direction. “’Do what you want, it’s not like you ever listen to me anyway,’” Victor whined. “Father has such little faith in me, Makkachin.” He tossed the parchment onto his desk. “Well, at least he’s agreed to have Yura stand down, if not to pull back. It’s something.” Makkachin yipped in agreement. 

At least King Yakov hadn’t forbidden him to court Yuuri. Probably—if he was so intent on making war with Glacius, a failed courtship would be just as much an excuse as any. 

Victor didn’t intend to fail. 

Still, whatever Victor’s intentions, what mattered was _Yuuri,_ and whether he wanted to be courted by Victor. He’d accepted Victor’s gift and then the invitation to dance. Even better, he’d initiated a kiss, and Victor still felt the ghost of Yuuri’s lips on his own—but he still felt unsteady, unsure. Yuuri was nothing but cordial and politic throughout the day, and Victor wondered if perhaps the kiss had only come in the heat of the moment. 

Probably he should’ve found reassurance in the brooch pinned to Yuuri’s jacket, but Victor couldn’t help but think that maybe it was for appearances only. (Never mind that he had given the gift in private.) Probably, the glances Yuuri stole of him meant that Victor had nothing to worry about. 

None of that was enough to keep Victor’s mind from wandering away from the tedious details of the documents between him and Yuuri, especially not with Yuuri so _close_ , enough to reach out and touch. The fact that neither of them closed the distance was maddening, and Victor loved it as much as he just wanted to _end it,_ to relieve the tension. He couldn’t say what pushed him over the edge, maybe the curve of a visible collarbone, or the turn of his wrist, but suddenly Victor was slamming his palms down on the table, startling himself as well as Yuuri with the sound. 

They blinked at each other for a moment, Yuuri’s eyebrows high with confusion and _god it was adorable_ , before Victor managed to gather himself enough to speak. “Yuuri! Why don’t we take a break? A ride! We should take a ride, get some fresh air.” 

Yuuri’s expression settled, save for the lip he drew between his teeth. “But what about—” He glanced down at the table, and then back up to Victor. “A break would be nice.” 

It helped to be moving, settled Victor’s thoughts and racing heart just a little bit once they’d separated to change into riding clothes, but once Yuuri was beside him once more… 

“I was serious, when I said I meant to court you,” Victor said quietly. He watched Yuuri from the corner of his eye. Yuuri looked thoughtful, though it wasn’t the same expression he wore when discussing politics in the library, and it was a revelation that Victor had noticed the difference. Though, he supposed, he’d spent most of his time here with Yuuri—enough to notice the small things. 

At length, Yuuri murmured, “I know.” There was a small smile on his face, his eyes on Victor, and it sent a thrill through him. 

Victor wasn’t sure what came next. There was a difference between having a fleeting evening of pleasure, and pursuing someone with intent, like this. He wanted to reach out and touch Yuuri, to close the distance between them, but more than that, he wanted to _keep_ him. 

So instead he was quiet next to Yuuri, just watching him. 

It was a little easier, once they’d saddled their horses for the ride. Mundane small talk quickly gave way to deeper conversation, and Victor learned that riding was one of Yuuri’s favorite pastimes. 

“It clears my mind. It’s just me, and the horse, and the quiet of the land around me. In fact, it was quite nice to have an excuse to have a good long ride.” Yuuri practically glowed as he spoke, and Victor found himself smiling in response. 

“You didn’t ride by carriage? And here I thought _I_ was a scandalous prince!” 

Yuuri broke into a grin. “That’s hardly scandalous, Victor!” 

Victor shook his head, grinning back. “What kind of prince forsakes the comfort of a carriage in favor of hours in the saddle?” 

“It’s faster anyway!” Yuuri protested. 

“Ah, so that explains it,” Victor teased, “you were in a hurry to meet me!” It was a joke, but Victor couldn’t help but hope it was true. Well. They hadn’t known each other then, so it couldn’t quite be the case, but. 

But it was worth it to see the vibrant blush that rose in Yuuri’s cheeks. “You’re—you’re not wrong,” he managed, and the words warmed Victor all the way through. Face still red, Yuuri gave Victor a sideways look, and said, “I’ll _show_ you how much faster it is.” His tone was playful, the glint in his eyes a warning before he was nudging his horse into a gallop. 

Victor’s breath caught, and he found himself chasing Yuuri yet again, a laugh bursting out once he’d found his breath. He wondered, for a moment, if maybe _he_ was the one being courted. It didn’t matter, he decided, because he already belonged to Yuuri. 

The second half of their ride was set at an easier pace, the atmosphere relaxed and comfortable, and as they were riding back through the castle gates, Victor caught sight of Christophe, watching them from a short distance. He couldn’t quite see that far, but he could practically _feel_ the smug look on Chris’ face. 

It had probably been his plan all along, Victor mused, remembering Chris saying, _leave everything to me_. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when Yuuri was walking easily beside him. 

.o. 

They were nearly done with negotiations, the last details worked through slowly, tediously, and the time broken up by outings with Yuuri. Most of the awkwardness between them was gone, but he still couldn’t always read Yuuri. Perhaps that was part of what drew Victor to him. 

Victor wanted to prolong their time together as much as possible, but there was only so far he could go to keep him and Yuuri in Esteau. The thought occurred to him that perhaps he could follow Yuuri back to Glacius, act as an ambassador for Poskana in King Celestino’s court. King Yakov probably wouldn’t approve, but then again, he was already convinced that Victor never listened to him, so what difference would it make if Victor simply did as his father expected? 

Except, Victor had come to Esteau prepared for politics, not courting, and while Chris would probably provide him with his every need, there was something to be said about using his _own_ resources to court Yuuri. Not to mention his admiration of Yuuri’s dedication to his own country—and surely Yuuri would admire the same in Victor (and Victor _was_ , it was more a matter of a vision that differed from his father’s). It would be better for him to return to Poskana before considering a visit to Glacius—even better if he could court Yuuri in an official capacity. 

There was also another part of him, imagining the letters they would surely exchange. His initial exchanges with Yuuri had been polite to a fault—formal, even—but now they were familiar to each other, and Victor wanted to know what that would be like, sharing letters that weren’t structured with the trappings of politics. It would be…intimate. Romantic, and Victor loved the idea of it. 

And yet there was still a seed of doubt. Yuuri had kissed him—more than once, now—and they’d shared companionship, but…it wasn’t far-fetched to think he was simply playing coy. Or that he was playing along to gain favor for the sake of their negotiations (though that had been unnecessary). 

It was a ridiculous doubt, really, but it made Victor wonder if Yuuri would even bother to write. He wanted him to, wanted to find out what Yuuri would say, and as silly as it was, he wanted to see if Yuuri _would_ write. 

And so as their negotiations wound to a close, Victor began preparing for his return to Poskana. 

There was less to do than there had been for the parting journey, and the atmosphere was different—less harried, and yet somehow charged and heavy with potential.  If there was really something there with Yuuri—and Victor prayed there was—then they could truly begin, now that they’d restored the peace between their countries. 

The night before their planned departure, Yuuri caught Victor’s hand after dinner, his eyes bright and color high on his cheeks, and it made Victor’s nerves sing in anticipation.  Of what, he wasn’t sure, but there was intent shining in Yuuri’s gaze as he led Victor away from the commotion of court. 

They didn’t go far, just to a quiet alcove off from the large hall, something with moderate privacy, and Victor waited patiently for whatever Yuuri was planning—because he certainly had something in mind.  Watching him look up at Victor with those earnest, dark eyes, teeth edging over his lip before he consciously made himself stop…it was something Victor could look at forever, so patience was no difficulty. 

“Uhm, I,” Yuuri’s eyes flicked down for a moment, and then his expression hardened into something like resolve, his cheeks dusted in pink.  “I know I’m not very good at making my feelings plain.  But I wanted to, before we part ways.”  Yuuri pursed his lips, and a moment later Victor’s attention fell to Yuuri’s hands as he reached toward Victor.  Victor inclined his head towards Yuuri, half-expecting a kiss, but Yuuri reached instead for the simple ponytail holding Victor’s hair in check.  He had to step closer to reach, even closer than Victor had been to pin the orchid brooch to Yuuri’s jacket, so that barely a breath was between their bodies—if Victor could even remember to breathe. 

Yuuri’s fingers smoothed over Victor’s hair once, a delicate pressure against his scalp that Victor didn’t feel so much as _sense_ , and he could feel his face heating up just at the thought of Yuuri’s hands tangling in his hair with more passion—though this touch was chaste.  It sent his heart racing, and his frozen breath came back in silent gasp.  It was incredibly intimate, and Victor curled a little closer to Yuuri as those elegant fingers tied a length of gold ribbon in place just above the leather lace that held his hair in place.  Yuuri lingered just like that, before finally tilting his head to catch Victor’s lips in a kiss. 

Too soon Yuuri was drawing away, but he was smiling and Victor thought it was an acceptable consolation, to see Yuuri’s mouth turned up at the corners like that.  “A courting gift,” Yuuri explained, and Victor could only nod dumbly. 

.o. 

The yard outside of the stables was chaotic, servants saddling horses or hitching them to carriages, loading trunks and provisions for the journey.  It was a mix of people from both Victor’s and Yuuri’s retinues, Makkachin bounding around in excitement, but Victor hardly noticed any of it. 

Yuuri’s hand was in his hair again—only briefly—to touch the gold ribbon that Victor had tied there himself before emerging from his rooms.  He’d swung his braid forward over his shoulder so that the ribbon was visible, catching the light; a precious gift of intent.  Victor returned the gesture, brushing the violet orchid on Yuuri’s jacket with a finger. 

“You’ll write, won’t you, Yuuri?”  Victor dropped his hands to catch one of Yuuri’s, and held it between his.  If anyone else noticed, he didn’t care. 

“Of course I will.”  Yuuri’s eyes crinkled with his smile, his gaze as earnest as ever, and he clapped his free hand over top of Victor’s, giving a gentle squeeze.  “You’ll write back, right?” 

Victor drew their joined hands up until he could press a kiss against Yuuri’s knuckles.  “Twice a day.  I’ll fill the sky with hawks to send you my love.” 

“Victor!”  Yuuri’s smile broke into a laugh, and he tugged his hands away.  “I think I would like that.” 

They stayed close, in their own private world for as long as they could, until Lord Chalunont and Lady Minako appeared at Yuuri’s elbow to call him away, and Victor reluctantly turned to mount his own horse.  They had to travel in opposite directions, and Victor kept twisting in the saddle until he could no longer see Yuuri doing the same. 

It was impossible to pen a letter while riding, so after an hour he climbed into his carriage, Makkachin bounding in behind him, to scrawl a short note to Yuuri. 

The hawk returned with Yuuri’s response before midday, and Victor’s mouth hurt, he was smiling so much, joy bubbling all through him. 

This was going to work out perfectly.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are loved and appreciated and keep me going!
> 
> Also find me on [tumblr](http://sylvermyth.tumblr.com)!


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